MY  OWN  STORY 


J.T.TR  OWE  RIDGE 


.  Crotobri&p. 


MY  OWN  STORY.  Illustrated.  Large 
crown  8vo,  $2.50,  net.  Postage  extra. 

POETICAL  WORKS.  Collected  edition, 
with  Portrait,  Notes,  etc.  Large  crown 
gvo,  $2.00. 

A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
i6mo,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY, 
BOSTON   AND  NEW  YOKK. 


MY   OWN   STORY 


MY  OWN  STORY 

WITH   RECOLLECTIONS   OF 
NOTED   PERSONS 

BY 

JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE 

ILLUSTRATED 

Ne  cede  mails.  —  Heraldic  Motto. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

fCfce  Ritaertfibc  pri'£?,  Camtm&gr 

1903 


/tl 

/<?63 


COPYRIGHT    1902,    1903,    BY    HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   &   CO. 

COPYRIGHT    1903,    BY  JOHN    TOWNSEND   TROWBRIDGE 

ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  September,  jgoj 


FOREWARNING 

THE  significance  of  the  saying  (Carlyle's,  is  it 
not  ?)  that  the  story  of  any  man's  life  would  have 
interest  and  value,  if  truly  told,  is  recognized,  I 
think,  by  the  most  of  us  ;  yet  each  is  apt  to 
fancy  at  least  one  exception  to  the  rule,  namely, 
his  own  particular  life.  This  certainly  was  the 
case  with  myself,  even  up  to  the  time  when  I 
was  induced  —  reluctantly  for  that  reason  —  to 
undertake  these  memoirs.  I  have  therefore 
been  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  manner  in 
which  the  chapters  that  appeared  in  recent  num 
bers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  have  been  received, 
and  can  only  attribute  it  to  whatever  success  I 
may  have  had  in  fulfilling  the  condition  that 
points  the  saying. 

Yet  that  the  story  I  tell  is  not  the  bare, 
absolute,  unveiled  verity  I  hasten  to  avow,  in  the 
interest  of  the  truth  which  I  believe  in  and  would 


vi  FOREWARNING 

sincerely  serve.  Under  the  purest  tones  of  the 
violin,  persists  ever  the  dry,  dreary,  accompany 
ing  sound  of  the  friction  of  the  bow  upon  the 
strings ;  the  player  hears  it,  as  likewise  do  any 
of  his  auditors  who  chance  to  be  too  near  the 
instrument ;  but  it  is  properly  no  part  of  the 
performance,  and  will  not,  if  he  is  skilled,  mar 
his  musical  numbers.  Alas,  if  he  be  not  skilled ! 

Skilled  or  otherwise,  I  have  endeavored  to 
hold  my  audience  at  a  little  distance.  While 
aiming  always  at  entire  fidelity  to  the  main  and 
minor  facts  of  my  record,  I  have  kept  out  of  it 
as  much  as  possible  the  ennuis  and  annoyances, 
the  errors  and  heartaches,  of  which  my  life  has 
doubtless  been  no  freer  than  yours  who  peruse 
these  pages,  if  as  free.  I  say  this  especially  to 
dispel  the  illusion  in  which  some,  I  find,  have 
followed  the  published  magazine  chapters,  —  that, 
in  respect  to  discouragements  and  failures,  human 
ills  and  frailties,  mine  has  been  an  exception  to 
the  common  lot.  Strange  illusion  indeed  ! 

I  desire  also  to  correct  a  quite  different 
impression,  derived  from  the  same  source,  that  I 


FOREWARNING  vii 

have  lived  what  in  these  later  years  is  termed  a 
"strenuous  life."  I  do  not  greatly  believe  in  the 
strenuous  life  for  myself,  much  as  I  may  admire 
it  in  another,  and  I  had  no  idea  that  I  was  living  it 
in  the  periods  of  struggle  and  not  over-successful 
achievement  I  have  portrayed.  Our  strivings  after 
better  things  than  wealth  and  power  and  display, 
even  for  complex  intellectual  acquirements  and 
the  accomplishment  of  the  worthiest  aims,  may 
be  too  incessant  and  intense,  and  dry  up  in  us 
the  springs  of  spirit  they  should  feed.  We  do  not 
often  enough  rest  in  the  divine  passivity  that  heals 
the  hurts  of  time  and  is  the  restoring  bath  of  our 
being.  Not  that  I  would  counsel  a  purposeless 
drifting,  while  choice  of  direction  is  left  us,  with 
strength  of  arm  for  the  oar.  Only  dreams  come  to 
us  in  our  sleep,,  Not  alone  the  great  prizes  of  life, 
but  often  the  mind's  solace  and  the  body's  health, 
wait  upon  work.  The  world  is  for  endeavor;  the 
world  is  the  flint,  the  will  of  man  the  steel. 

The  heraldic  motto  on  the  title-page  of  these 
reminiscences  (given  also  on  a  later  page  with  its 
context  in  the  Sibyl's  charge  to  ^Eneas)  is  in 


viii  FOREWARNING 

reality  the  motto  of  the  Trowbridge  coat  of 
arms.  The  coat  of  arms  I  have  no  special  inter 
est  or  pride  in,  but  the  motto  I  deem  worthy  to 
be  prized,  to  be  cited,  and  to  shape  one's  life  by. 


CONTENTS 


I.  A  BACKWOODS  BOYHOOD i 

II.   STARTING  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD          ...  62 

III.  FIRST  EXPERIENCES  AS  A  WRITER       ...  89 

IV.  EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON 134 

V.   FRIENDS  AND  FIRST  BOOKS 175 

VI.   THE  WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD         .  211 
VII.   UNDERWOOD,    LOWELL,    AND    THE    ATLANTIC 

MONTHLY 233 

VIII.  CUDJO'S  CAVE  AND  OTHER  WAR  STORIES  —  A 

NEW  HOME 259 

IX.  THE  SOUTH  AFTER  THE  WAR       .        .        .        .271 

X.  OUR  YOUNG  FOLKS  AND  BOOKS  FOR  THE  YOUNG  317 

XI.  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EMERSON  AND  ALCOTT         .  335 
XII.   WALT  WHITMAN  —  WITH    GLIMPSES  OF  CHASE 

AND    O'CONNOR 360 

XIII.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 402 

XIV.  LONGFELLOW 418 

XV.   CLOSING  NUMBERS 451 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE      .        .        Frontispiece 

From  a  photograph  by  Litchfield. 
BIRTHPLACE  OF  J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE 10 

Showing  the  out-door  oven   and  the  Rochester  road. 
Drawn  by  Charles  Copeland,  from  descriptions  fur 
nished  by  the  Author,  and  by  the  Author's  eldest  sis 
ter,  Mrs.  Greene. 
REBECCA  WILLEY  TROWBRIDGE  (THE  AUTHOR'S  MOTHER) 

AT  THE  AGE  OF  58 60 

From  a  daguerreotype. 
MAJOR  MORDECAI  M.  NOAH 98 

Redrawn  from  a  middle-age  portrait. 
BRATTLE  ST.  CHURCH 134 

From  a  photograph  loaned  by  the  Bostonian  Society. 
EDWARD  T.  TAYLOR  ("  FATHER  TAYLOR")       .       .        .    138 

From  a  photograph  loaned  by  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Dora 

Toft  Brigham. 
J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE  AT  THE  AGE  OF  21         ....    150 

From  a  daguerreotype  taken  in  iSfg. 
THEODORE  PARKER 168 

From  a  photograph. 
HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 174 

From  a  daguerreotype  taken  in  1852. 
CHARLES  F.  BROWN  ("ARTEMUS  WARD")        .       .        .182 

From  a  photograph. 
C.  G.  HALPINE  AND  B.  P.  SHILLABER       ....     188 

From  a  photograph. 


xii  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

DR.  WM.  T.  G.  MORTON 206 

From  a  photograph. 
BEN:  PERLEY  POORE 216 

From  a  photograph. 
MOSES  D.  PHILLIPS 228 

From  a  photograph. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 236 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  middle  life. 
FRANCIS  H.  UNDERWOOD 248 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  middle  life. 
WINDSOR  WARREN  TROWBRIDGE 266 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  his  fifth  year. 
LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN 288 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1865. 
GEN.  P.  H.  SHERIDAN 304 

From  a  photograph  loaned  by  the  Mass.  Order  of  the 

Loyal  Legion  of  the  U.  S. 
COLUMBIA,  S.  C.,  AFTER  SHERMAN'S  RAID        .        .        .    312 

From  a  photograph  loaned  by  the  Mass.  Order  of  the 

Loyal  Legion  of  the  U.  S. 
J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE  AT  THE  AGE  OF  45        .        .        .        .    322 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1873. 
DANIEL  S.  FORD 328 

From  a  photograph  loaned 'by  the  editors  of '"  The  Youth's 

Companion" 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  IN  EARLY  MANHOOD        .        .    348 

From  a  daguerreotype    in  possession   of  the   Emerson 

family. 
LEWIS  B.  MONROE  AT  THE  AGE  OF  38        .        .        .        .    352 

From  a  photograph. 
A.  BRONSON  ALCOTT  IN  LATER  YEARS       ....    358 

From  a  photograph. 
HON.  SALMON  P.  CHASE 370 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1863. 
WILLIAM  D.  O'CONNOR 378 

From  a  photograph  loaned  by  Mrs.  O'Connor-Colder. 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS  xiii 

WALT  WHITMAN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  55 390 

From  a  photograph. 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 408 

From  a  photograph  in  Harvard  University  Library. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  ....    420 

From  a  photograph  in  Harvard  University  Library. 
ARLINGTON  LAKE  (SPY  POND) 446 

From  a  photograph  by  Mr.  F.  G.  Frost. 

AUTOGRAPH  LINES  FROM  "  THREE  WORLDS  "  .        .        .    448 
THE  TROWBRIDGE  HOME  ARLINGTON      ....    458 

From  a  photograph. 


Tu  ne  cede  malis ;  sed  contra  audentior  ito, 
Qua  tua  te  Fortuna  sinet. 

sEneid  VI. ,  £5-,  g6. 

Yield  not,  whatever  woeful  stroke  may  be 
Thy  portion,  when  befalls  the  evil  day  ; 

But  draw  fresh  courage  from  calamity, 

And  forward  press,  where  Fortune  points  the  way. 


MY   OWN   STORY 

CHAPTER  I 

A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD 


MY  English  ancestor,  Thomas  Trowbridge,  of 
Taunton,  came  to  this  country  about  the  year 
1634.  He  was  a  grandson  of  that  earlier  Thomas 
who  gave  to  the  poor  of  Taunton  the  perpetual 
income  from  certain  lands,  to  be  dispensed  by  the 
wardens  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene  and  St.  James,  in 
which  churches  tablets  commemorating  the  gift 
and  the  giver  are  conspicuously  placed.  Once  a 
year,  for  now  almost  three  hundred  years,  accord 
ing  to  the  terms  of  the  will,  "  the  Poorest,  Oldest, 
most  Honest  and  Impotent  Poor  "  are  assembled 
to  hear  a  sermon,  receive  each  his  dole,  and  be 
reminded  to  thank  God  and  the  donor  for  the 
benefaction.  As  they  receive  only  a  shilling  each, 
it  is  to  be  hoped  the  homily  is  not  long.  Despite 
the  degrading  conditions,  regularly  on  St. 
Thomas's  day  the  churches  are  thronged  by  appli 
cants  for  the  charity  ;  and  one  of  the  wardens 
assured  a  kinsman  of  mine,  some  years  since,  that 


2  MY   OWN   STORY 

it  was  "  a  blessing  to  the  poor."  As  a  descendant 
of  the  well-meaning  Thomas,  I  am  thankful  for 
the  warden's  further  assurance  that  the  very  old 
and  infirm  are  excused  from  hearing  the  sermon, 
and  get  their  gratuity  without  going  to  ask  for  it 
publicly. 

The  emigrant,  Thomas,  brought  his  wife  and 
two  sons  to  America ;  and  a  third  son  was  born 
to  him  in  Dorchester,  Mass.,  where  he  first  settled. 
He  removed  to  New  Haven  in  1639,  made  voyages 
of  traffic  to  Barbados,  and  finally  went  back  to 
England,  leaving  his  boys  in  New  Haven,  in  the 
care  of  an  unfaithful  steward.  The  oldest  of  these 
sons,  Thomas,  is  the  ancestor  of  the  New  Haven 
family  of  Trowbridges.  From  the  third  son, 
James,  I  am  descended.1 

James  returned  to  Dorchester,  where  his  father 

1  The  Trowbridge  family  derives  its  name  from  its  ancient 
inheritance,  Trowbridge,  in  the  parish  of  Crediton,  in  Devon 
shire,  where  it  resided  for  many  centuries,  and  which  was  the 
property  of  Peter  de  Trowbridge  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the 
First.  A  younger  branch  of  the  family  was  settled  in  Taunton, 
in  Somersetshire,  as  early  as  1541.  That  nearly  all  the  Ameri 
can  Trowbridges  are  descended  from  this  branch  appears  from 
the  fact  that  whenever  any  of  them  are  able  to  trace  their  an 
cestry  back  three  or  four  generations,  the  line  can  nearly  always 
be  found  in  The  History  of  the  Trowbridge  Family,  published  by 
Thomas  R.  Trowbridge,  of  New  Haven,  in  1872,  a  full  and  care 
fully  prepared  genealogy,  to  which  I  am  chiefly  indebted  for 
these  early  data. 


A   BACKWOODS  BOYHOOD  3 

must  have  left  some  property  to  look  after,  and 
later  settled  in  Cambridge  Village  (now  Newton). 
He  was  the  grandfather  of  Judge  Edmund  Trow- 
bridge,  the  eminent  jurist,  and  of  Lydia  Trow- 
bridge,  who  married  the  rising  young  barrister, 
Richard  Dana,  and  became  the  mother  of  an  illus 
trious  line.  A  brother  of  Edmund  and  Lydia  was 
John  Trowbridge,  of  Framingham,  the  father  of 
Major  John  Trowbridge,  who  served  in  the  Revo 
lutionary  War. 

My  father,  Windsor  Stone  Trowbridge,  grand 
son  of  Major  John,  was  born  in  Framingham, 
where  I  found  a  sister  of  his  still  living,  a  gray- 
haired  woman,  when  I  first  came  to  New  England 
in  1848.  She  showed  me  the  site  of  the  home  of 
their  childhood,  marked  only  by  a  ruined  cellar 
overgrown  with  grass  and  weeds,  —  a  scene  full 
of  suggestiveness  to  an  impressible  youth,  going 
on  such  a  pilgrimage,  to  seek  some  trace  of  his 
parent's  early  years. 

When  still  quite  young  my  father  was  taken  by 
his  parents  to  Oneida  County,  in  Central  New 
York,  where,  his  mother  dying,  he  was  bound  out 
to  a  Westmoreland  farmer,  John  Townsend,  with 
whom  he  lived  until  he  was  twenty-one,  receiving, 
in  return  for  his  services,  his  board  and  clothing, 
a  common-school  education,  and,  on  attaining  his 
majority,  a  yoke  of  oxen  and  a  hundred  dollars  in 


4  MY   OWN   STORY 

money.  The  service  could  not  have  been  unduly 
hard,  for  Mr.  Townsend  was  a  kind  man,  and  he 
treated  his  ward  in  every  respect  as  he  did  his 
own  son,  John,  the  boys  being  brought  up  to 
gether  like  two  brothers.  But  there  was  a  preju 
dice  against  such  service,  the  hardships  of  which 
my  father,  in  after  years,  sometimes  endeavored 
to  impress  upon  his  own  youngsters,  when  for 
our  disobedience  he  would  make  the  threat,  "  I  '11 
bind  you  out  if  you  don't  behave  better ! " 
with  a  prodigious  frown,  which,  however,  did  not 
frighten  us,  knowing  well,  as  we  did,  how  much 
easier  it  was  for  him,  with  his  irritable  temper 
and  kind  heart,  to  make  a  threat  than  it  was  to 
execute  it. 

My  father  and  the  younger  John  Townsend 
never  forgot  their  early  attachment,  but  remained 
good  friends  long  after  my  father  left  Westmore 
land  for  the  Genesee  country,  as  it  was  then  called, 
farther  west.  I  was  named  for  that  companion  of 
his  boyhood,  who  made  us  at  least  one  visit  in  our 
backwoods  home,  —  a  visit  impressed  upon  me  by 
an  interesting  circumstance,  although  I  was  then 
but  four  years  old.  Mr.  Townsend  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  and  taking  from  his  pocket  a 
silver  half-dollar,  gave  it  to  me,  as  he  remarked, 
"for  my  name."  It  was  probably  the  first  half- 
dollar  piece  I  had  ever  seen,  and  I  did  not  see 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  5 

much  of  that.  I  don't  remember  just  how  it  dis 
appeared,  but  I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  my 
father's  saying  he  would  give  me  a  sheep  for  it,  a 
proposition  with  which  both  the  big  and  the  little 
John  Townsend  were,  I  suppose,  content.  No 
doubt  I  thought  it  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  sheep 
all  my  own.  There  was,  moreover,  a  condition 
attached  to  the  transaction  which  I  did  not  quite 
grasp  at  the  time,  but  which  was  explained  and 
well  understood  by  me  later.  In  that  new  country 
a  farmer  too  poor  to  purchase  sheep  would  some 
times  take  a  small  flock  of  a  neighbor,  with  the 
obligation  to  return  double  the  number  at  the  end 
of  four  years.  My  father  proposed  to  take  my 
sheep  on  those  terms  ;  it  was  still  to  be  mine,  but 
he  was  to  have  its  wool  and  its  progeny,  and  give 
me  that  sheep  and  another,  or,  at  any  rate,  two 
sheep,  on  my  eighth  birthday.  From  that  time  it 
was  understood  that  I  was  part  owner  of  the  flock. 
When  I  was  six,  I  was  told  that  I  owned  a  sheep 
and  a  half ;  and  in  watching  the  flock  I  used  to 
wonder  which  whole  sheep  was  mine  and  which 
half  of  which  other  sheep  I  could  properly  claim. 
When  I  was  eight,  I  was  the  proud  proprietor  of 
two  sheep  ;  when  I  was  twelve,  my  father  continu 
ing  to  hire  sheep  of  me,  I  had  four  ;  and  I  was 
then  able  to  figure  out  the  bewildering  number 
I  would  have,  at  that  rate,  when  I  got  to  be  as  old 


6  MY  OWN   STORY 

as  he.  At  sixteen  I  had  eight  sheep ;  at  seven 
teen  I  was  entitled  to  ten  ;  but  then  I  left  the 
homestead  and  the  undivided  flock,  —  a  source  of 
ever  multiplying  and  illimitable  riches,  if  there 
were  anybody  to  account  to  me  for  the  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  sheep  that  should  now  be  mine  by 
that  simple  rule  of  increase.  It  was  always  my 
fault  that  I  did  not  look  closely  after  my  material 
and,  for  that  matter,  my  more  ethereal  interests. 
I  kept  John  Townsend's  worthy  name,  but  his  half- 
dollar,  and  the  fortune  founded  upon  it,  vanished 
into  air,  into  thin  air,  like  so  many  of  my  early 
and  late  expectations. 

II 

That  part  of  the  Genesee  country  to  which  my 
father  emigrated  was  the  township  of  Ogden,  in 
Monroe  County,  a  few  miles  west  of  the  river  that 
gave  the  region  its  name.  Soon  after  attaining 
his  freedom  he  had  married  a  Westmoreland 
farmer's  daughter,  Rebecca  Willey  (granddaugh 
ter  of  Captain  John  Willey,  of  East  Haddam, 
Conn.,  a  veteran  of  the  Revolution),  when  she  was 
eighteen  and  he  twenty-one.  They  kept  house 
about  a  year  and  a  half  in  Westmoreland.  Then, 
in  the  depth  of  winter,  namely,  in  February,  1812, 
he  yoked  his  oxen  to  a  sleigh,  on  which  were 
loaded  a  few  farming  and  kitchen  utensils  and 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  7 

household  goods,  —  all  it  could  safely  carry  in  the 
condition  of  the  road,  if  road  it  might  be  called,  a 
mere  wagon  track  cut  through  the  primeval  woods, 
—  and  set  out  with  her  upon  their  rough  journey 
of  over  a  hundred  miles  and  I  know  not  how  many 
days.  What  is  now  Syracuse  was  then  a  frontier 
settlement ;  beyond  that  their  way  lay  for  the 
most  part  through  the  unbroken  solitudes  of  the 
forest.  There  was  no  bridge  over  the  Genesee, 
and  but  one  house  at  the  Falls,  where  the  city  of 
Rochester  now  stands.  The  emigrants  expected 
to  cross  by  a  ferry  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  but 
they  found  the  river  frozen  over,  and  the  ferry 
boat  blocked.  They  put  up  at  a  log  tavern,  and 
crossing  the  next  morning  on  the  ice,  pushed  on 
into  the  vast  and  shadowy  wilderness,  my  father 
walking  by  the  horns  of  the  oxen  to  navigate  the 
sleigh  among  the  projecting  roots  and  through  the 
snow-filled  hollows  ;  the  bars  of  sunshine  slanting 
along  the  arches  of  great  trunks  and  limbs,  and 
the  tinkling  ice  crust  dropping  from  the  boughs 
overhead.  They  reached  their  destination  that 
afternoon. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  dense  woods,  where 
a  Westmoreland  acquaintance  had  already  made  a 
small  clearing  and  built  a  cabin.  He  took  in  the 
newcomers,  and  helped  my  father  "  roll  up  a 
house,"  —  a  mere  hut,  built  of  logs  not  too  large 


8  MY   OWN    STORY 

for  two  men  to  roll  up  on  inclined  poles,  and  place 
one  upon  another.  The  "puncheon"  floor  was 
of  split  chestnut  logs,  the  sleigh  boards  serving  as 
the  floor  of  the  loft  Not  a  nail  was  used  in  the 
construction  ;  nails  were  expensive  ;  wooden  pegs 
took  their  place.  Xo  stones  could  be  gathered 
on  account  of  the  deep  snow,  and  my  mother's 
kettles  would  sink  down  into  the  soft  ground 
which  formed  the  hearth.  The  snow  stayed  until 
April.  When  it  was  gone,  and  she  went  out  and 
found  some  "  good,  nice  stones  "  to  set  her  kettles 
on  in  the  fireplace,  she  "felt  rich,"  as  she  used 
smilingly  to  tell  us  children  in  later  years. 

So  my  parents  set  up  their  simple  housekeep 
ing,  and  passed,  I  have  no  doub:,  their  happiest 
days, — days  as  happy,  very  likely,  as  any  their 
children,  or  numerous  grandchildren  or  great 
grandchildren,  have  enjoyed  in  the  stress  of  a 
more  complex  civilization.  She  sang  at  her  work  ; 
his  axe  resounded  in  the  forest.  He  made  a 
clearing,  and  planted  corn  and  beans  and  potatoes 
among  the  stumps.  Their  first  child  was  born  in 
that  hut.  The  clearing  grew,  and  before  long  a 
larger,  well-built  house  replaced  the  primitive 
cabin. 

This  more  substantial  house  had  one  large 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  about  twenty  feet  square, 
a  low-roofed  chamber,  to  which  access  was  had  by 


A   BACKWOODS  BOYB 

-::     iii::::r.      7-.-;        :t: 


i_ ; 

~  -        _ .;  .  r 


io  MY  OWN   STORY 

curtains  and  pillow  slips  were  a  part  of  her  wed 
ding  outfit,  and  had  been  woven  for  her  by  our 
Grandmother  Willey.  Under  the  bed  was  a 
trundle-bed,  drawn  out  at  night  for  the  youngest 
children  to  sleep  in,  and  pushed  back  by  day, 
when  all  would  be  concealed  from  view  by  the 
drawn  curtains.  Each  child  passed  from  the 
mother's  arms  to  that  trundle-bed,  which  gener 
ally  held  two  or  three  at  a  time ;  the  older  ones, 
as  their  successors  came,  being  allowed  —  and  it 
was  accounted  a  proud  privilege  —  to  go  "  up  cham 
ber  "  to  sleep.  There  was  no  pantry,  cupboards 
serving  instead.  Outside  the  house  was  a  large 
brick  oven,  where  the  family  baking  was  done. 
It  was  under  a  shed,  which  was  some  protection 
to  our  mother  when  she  had  "  a  bad  day  for  bak- 
ing." 

In  this  log  house  all  the  nine  children  were 
born  except  the  first  and  the  last.  I  was  the 
eighth,  and  in  it  I  first  saw  the  light  (that  of  a 
tallow  candle)  in  September,  1827,  after  our 
parents  had  been  fifteen  years  in  their  backwoods 
home. 

Ill 

The  event,  of  so  much  more  importance  to  me 
than  to  any  one  else,  took  place  so  nearly  on  the 
stroke  of  midnight  that  it  was  uncertain  whether 


BIRTHPLACE  OF  J.   T.   TROWBRIDGE 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  n 

the  1 7th  or  i8th  of  the  month  should,  in  strict 
accordance  with  the  fact,  be  set  down  as  my 
birthday.  In  my  childhood,  some  freedom  of 
choice  being  left  to  me  in  the  matter,  —  strange 
as  it  may  seem  that  a  boy  should  be  able  to  choose 
his  own  birthday,  —  I  stoutly  maintained  that 
the  1 7th  was  the  anniversary,  since  it  added  the 
dignity  of  one  day  to  my  youthful  years,  and 
brought  the  presents,  if  there  chanced  to  be  any, 
one  day  earlier.  But  later  in  life,  for  a  sadder 
reason,  I  fixed  upon  the  date  that  made  me  a  day 
younger.  Then  there  was  the  satisfaction  of  feel 
ing  that  I  was  a  child  of  the  morning.  I  had, 
however,  cause  to  regret,  even  in  my  boyhood, 
that  I  did  not  put  off  my  entrance  upon  the  stage 
a  few  weeks  longer,  for  then  I  could  have  enjoyed 
the  distinction  of  being  born  in  a  new  framed 
house,  which  the  family  moved  into  while  I  was 
yet  in  the  cradle.  But  as  it  made  not  the  slight 
est  difference  to  me  at  the  time,  so  now  I  am  as 
well  content  as  if  my  eyes  had  first  blinked  and 
my  infant  lungs  piped  in  a  palace. 

The  house  in  which  my  boyhood  was  passed,  a 
two-story  farmhouse  painted  white,  with  green 
blinds,  stood,  and  I  believe  yet  stands,  on  the 
north  side  of  a  road  running  east  and  west,  a  mile 
or  more  from  the  "  Basin,"  as  we  used  to  call  it,  — 
Spencer's  Basin,  now  Spencerport,  on  the  Erie 


12  MY   OWN   STORY 

Canal.  This  was  the  nearest  village.  It  was  a 
small  village  then,  but  it  prides  itself  on  being  so 
much  of  a  village  now  that  friends  of  mine,  living 
there,  express  surprise  that  I  do  not  claim  it  as 
my  birthplace,  it  is  so  much  more  distinctive  ! 
But  I  was  not  born  in  a  village.  Ogden  includes 
Spencerport,  and  is  distinctive  enough  for  one  so 
obscurely  born  and  bred. 

Behind  the  house  was  the  well,  with  its  iron- 
bound  bucket ;  and  not  far  beyond  that  was  the 
fine  orchard  of  apple  and  peach  trees,  which  my 
father's  hand  had  planted,  and  which  were  in 
their  thrifty  prime  in  the  days  of  my  childhood. 

Beyond  the  barn  and  orchard  were  the  rolling 
pastures,  the  grainfields  where  I  hoed  corn  and 
pulled  redroot,  and  the  wood-lot,  which  had  been 
spared  when  the  forest  was  driven  back  to  make 
space  for  farm  land.  Beyond  the  wood-lot  was 
the  canal,  with  its  passing  boats,  in  sight  from 
the  rear  fences  of  our  farm,  but  not  near  enough 
for  us  boys  to  be  in  very  great  danger  of  contami 
nation  from  the  generally  rude  and  often  vicious 
characters  of  the  boatmen.  This  great  waterway 
is  only  about  two  years  older  than  I,  having  been 
completed  in  1825.  It  was  one  of  the  delights  of 
my  boyhood.  I  went  "  in  swimming  "  in  it,  on  sum 
mer  evenings  ;  in  the  autumn  I  peddled  nuts  and 
apples  on  it,  dropping  from  the  bridges  upon  the 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  13 

decks  of  passenger  boats  passing  under.  I  skated 
on  the  frozen  surface  of  the  slack  water  in  winter, 
and  had  on  its  banks  many  a  boyish  adventure. 

Still  beyond  the  canal,  on  the  north,  was  Lake 
Ontario,  not  many  miles  away,  but  veiled  from 
view  by  a  skirt  of  the  ancient  wilderness.  When 
I  revisited  the  farm  in  later  years,  the  distant 
woods  had  disappeared,  and  the  lake  was  visible 
from  the  high  pasture  land  over  which  I  had 
driven  the  cows  hundreds  of  times  in  the  sum 
mers  long  gone  by.  As  I  recalled  those  summers 
on  the  pleasant  hills,  the  feeling  of  glad  surprise 
with  which  I  looked  off  on  the  blue  expanse  was 
pierced  by  a  pang  of  regret  that  that  "  thing  of 
beauty  "  could  not  have  been  "  a  joy  "  of  my  bare 
foot  boyhood. 

Jessamine  vines  and  morning-glories  grew  be 
fore  the  front  windows,  and  in  beds  near  by  were 
all  the  old-fashioned  flowers,  of  which  the  pink 
and  the  flower-de-luce  were  always  my  favorites. 
Roses  I  admired,  and  other  flowers  had  their  spe 
cial  charms,  but  I  loved  the  pink,  and  something 
in  the  exquisite  tint  and  velvety  softness  of  the 
bosom  of  the  flower-de-luce  awakened  in  me  a 
yearning  no  words  could  ever  express.  I  remem 
ber  when  my  sisters  introduced  into  their  garden 
a  novelty  known  as  the  "  love  apple,"  prized  for 
its  beauty  only,  until  it  was  popularized  as  the 
tomato,  and  banished  to  the  vegetable  garden. 


i4  MY   OWN   STORY 

In  front  of  the  house  the  ground  fell  in  a  gentle 
green  slope  to  the  road,  on  the  other  side  of  which, 
not  many  rods  off,  was  an  immense  gloomy 
swamp,  shaded  by  lofty  elms  that  shut  out  the 
sun,  and  full  of  fallen  trunks,  rotten  logs  covered 
with  moss  as  with  coats  of  thick  fur,  and  black, 
silent  pools  that  to  my  childish  imagination  had  a 
mysterious  depth.  Awe  and  wonder  peopled  for 
me  those  profound  solitudes.  By  night  raccoons 
whinnied  and  owls  hooted  in  them,  and  at  times 
clouds  of  mosquitoes  came  out  of  them.  The 
roaring  wind  in  the  tossing  sea  of  tops,  the  creak 
ing  of  dry  limbs,  the  fireflies  fitfully  embroidering, 
as  with  stars  and  threads  of  gold,  the  dark  skirts 
of  the  swamp,  and  the  bears  and  panthers  and 
phantoms  which  I  fancied  inhabiting  it,  filled  my 
childish  soul  with  wonder  and  joy.  There  frogs 
held  their  concerts ;  and  often,  after  a  shower, 
when  the  wind  was  southerly,  sulphurous  odors 
were  wafted  to  us  from  the  troubled  pools. 

One  would  think  our  farmhouse  must  have 
been  in  an  unhealthy  place,  but  it  was  not  so. 
We  had  no  ague  in  our  neighborhood,  and  there 
were  probably  no  malarial  mosquitoes  in  the 
swamp.  The  house  stood  on  high  ground,  and 
our  only  protection  against  mosquitoes  was  a 
smudge-fire  on  summer  nights. 

There  was  a  tradition  among  the  boys  that  this 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  15 

swamp  was  impassable,  and  I  think  I  must  have 
been  nine  or  ten  years  old  before  I  ventured  to 
penetrate  its  dim  recesses  very  far.  Then,  taking 
advantage  of  an  unusually  dry  season,  and  mark 
ing  the  trees  so  that  I  could  find  my  way  back,  I 
tramped  and  scrambled  through  it,  and  found  to 
my  surprise  that  it  was  only  a  belt  of  woods,  with 
high  and  dry  farm  lands  on  the  other  side.  I  lost 
my  awe  of  it  from  that  day,  and  almost  wished  I 
had  left  it  unexplored.  I  have  since  found  many 
such  dark  and  mysterious  places  in  life,  filled  with 
shadowy  terrors,  until,  with  a  little  resolution, 
they  have  been  passed  through.  When  last  I 
visited  the  old  homestead,  there  was  no  black  and 
dismal  swamp  in  front  of  it,  but  a  well-drained 
broad  green  meadow  basking  in  the  summer  sun. 

IV 

The  new  house  also  had  its  great  fireplace,  and 
one  of  the  pleasant  recollections  of  my  boyhood  is 
the  generous  fire  that  on  winter  nights  filled  the 
room  with  its  glow.  The  building  of  this  fire  was 
a  somewhat  elaborate  affair.  After  the  evening 
chores  were  done,  my  father  would  appear  in  the 
doorway  with  the  big  backlog  coated  with  snow, 
often  of  ampler  girth  than  himself,  and  fully  breast 
high  to  him  as  he  held  it  upright,  canting  it  one 
way  and  another,  and  "  walking  "  it  before  him  on 


1 6  MY  OWN   STORY 

its  wedge-shaped  end.  He  would  perhaps  stand 
it  against  the  chimney  while  he  took  a  breathing 
spell  and  planned  his  campaign.  Then,  the  and 
irons  hauled  forward  on  the  hearth,  and  the  bed 
of  half-burnt  brands  and  live  coals  raked  open, 
the  icy  log  was  got  into  the  fireplace,  where  a 
skillful  turn  would  lay  it  over,  hissing  and  steam 
ing,  in  its  lair  of  hot  embers.  It  seemed  a  thing 
alive,  and  its  vehement  sputtering  and  protesting 
made  a  dramatic  moment  for  at  least  one  small 
spectator.  The  stout  shovel  and  tongs,  or  per 
haps  a  piece  of  firewood  used  as  a  lever,  would 
force  it  against  the  chimney  back ;  then  a  good- 
sized  stick,  called  a  "back-stick,"  was  laid  on  top 
of  it,  and  the  andirons  were  set  in  place.  Across 
the  andirons  another  good-sized  stick  was  laid, 
called  a  "fore-stick,"  and  in  the  interspace  smaller 
sticks  were  crossed  and  thrust  and  piled,  all 
quickly  kindled  by  the  live  coals  and  brands. 

In  very  cold  weather  a  fire  was  kept  burning 
all  night,  our  father  getting  up  once  or  twice  to 
replenish  it.  Even  in  summer  the  coals  rarely 
became  extinct.  A  good  heap  of  them,  covered 
with  embers  at  bedtime,  would  be  found  alive 
when  raked  open  in  the  morning.  This  was  a 
needful  precaution  before  locofoco  matches  came 
into  use.  Every  house  had  its  tinder-box,  but 
starting  a  flame  with  flint  and  steel  was  a  tedious 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  17 

process  at  the  best,  and  "  borrowing  fire "  was 
usual  among  neighbors  when  one  had  the  mis 
chance  to  lose  his  overnight.  I  am  unable  to  say 
how  long  this  custom  continued,  but  I  must  have 
been  seven  or  eight  years  old  when  a  vagabondish 
neighbor  came  to  our  house  one  morning  with  his 
wife's  foot-stove  to  get  some  coals.  He  was  a 
reckless  liar,  of  whom  it  was  proverbially  said  that 
he  would  "lie  for  the  fun  of  it"  when  the  truth 
would  have  been  more  to  his  advantage.  As 
we  had  had  our  breakfast,  my  mother  said  to 
him,  "  Your  folks  must  have  slept  late  this  morn 
ing."  "Bless  you,  no !  "  he  replied;  "we  were 
up  at  daylight,  and  my  wife  has  done  a  large  iron 
ing."  I  remember  with  what  good-natured  effront 
ery  he  joined  in  the  laugh  against  him  when  my 
mother  said  she  would  like  their  receipt  for  doing 
an  ironing  without  fire. 

The  foot-stove  was  a  small  sheet-iron  box  in  a 
wooden  frame,  and  with  a  perforated  cover,  made 
for  holding  a  basin  of  live  coals  imbedded  in  ashes ; 
it  was  used  in  cold  weather  to  rest  the  feet  on 
in  the  sleigh,  or  in  the  cold  meeting-house.  My 
mother  always  took  hers  to  church  with  her  from 
October  until  April.  Between  services,  a  fresh 
supply  of  coals  was  obtained  at  a  house  near  by, 
for  the  afternoon. 

The   first   friction  matches    I   ever  saw   were 


i8  MY  OWN   STORY 

brought  to  school  by  a  boy  who  lighted  one  by 
placing  it  in  the  folds  of  a  piece  of  sandpaper  and 
drawing  it  out  with  a  quick  pull.  When  we  who 
stood  looking  on  saw  it  come  out  actually  on  fire, 
our  wonder  and  envy  knew  no  bounds.  No,  sir !  he 
would  n't  let  one  of  us  ignite  or  even  touch  one  ; 
he  would  light  just  one  more  himself,  and  only 
one,  and  we  need  n't  tease,  for  those  magical  bits 
of  wood  were  too  precious  to  be  wasted  in  idle 
experiments.  It  was  n't  long  before  everybody 
had  matches,  and  a  new  era  in  household  econ 
omy  began. 

Along  with  matches,  stoves  came  into  the  set 
tlement.  A  "  Franklin  "  was  set  up  in  our  kitchen, 
and  the  arched  brick  oven,  that  had  been  built 
into  the  chimney  by  the  fireplace  to  supersede 
the  primitive  oven  outside  the  house,  was  itself 
superseded.  The  tin  "  baker,"  in  which  meats 
were  roasted  before  an  open  fire,  also  became 
obsolete.  We  still  had  open  fires  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  sometimes  in  the  "east  room  "  (or  par 
lor)  when  my  sisters  came  to  have  beaux. 

When  I  was  seven  years  old,  my  eldest  sister, 
Venilia,  married  one  of  these  beaux,  a  young  Ver- 
monter,  who  had  taught  our  district  school  and 
made  her  acquaintance  while  boarding  around. 
I  do  not  recall  the  wedding  ceremony,  but  I  re 
member  well  the  beautifully  frosted  wedding-cake, 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  19 

served  to  a  large  company  grouped  before  our  sit 
ting-room  fire.  It  was  winter,  and  not  long  after, 
namely,  in  February,  1835,  the  young  couple  emi 
grated  to  "  the  West,"  as  our  father  and  mother 
had  done  just  twenty-three  years  before. 

The  "  West "  in  this  instance  was  Illinois.  The 
day  of  their  departure  remains  vividly  impressed 
in  my  memory.  There  was  snow  on  the  ground, 
but  instead  of  a  sleigh  and  oxen  a  large  emigrant 
wagon  drawn  by  horses  was  brought  to  the  door. 
The  tearful  adieux  were  said  (I  wondered  why  my 
mother  and  sisters  cried  so),  and  the  great  slow 
wagon  rolled  away,  the  wheels  clogging  with  the 
damp  snow  (I  can  still  see  them),  and  the  white 
canvas  top  soon  disappearing  over  the  hill ;  be 
fore  it,  a  pilgrimage  of  near  six  hundred  miles ! 
It  was  a  much  longer  but  not  rougher  journey 
than  that  of  our  parents,  which  in  some  respects 
it  resembled.  As  our  father  and  mother  had 
found  the  ferryboat  blocked  by  ice  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Genesee,  so  the  later  emigrants  arrived  at 
the  Detroit  River  when  it  was  closed  over  by  a 
"  cold  snap  "  in  the  month  of  March.  My  bro 
ther-in-law  would  not  risk  crossing  with  his  young 
wife  in  the  loaded  wagon,  but  took  her  over  first, 
in  a  light  cutter,  running  at  the  horse's  head,  to 
insure  safety  with  speed ;  the  tough,  thin  ice  un 
dulating  under  the  gliding  runners.  Afterwards, 


20  MY   OWN   STORY 

by  dividing  his  load,  he  got  all  over  without  acci 
dent.  They  were  almost  a  month  in  reaching  the 
head  of  Lake  Michigan,  near  which  a  cluster  of 
houses  around  a  fort,  on  a  dismal  flat,  marked  the 
spot  where  the  miracle  of  a  mighty  city  was  so 
soon  to  rise.  They  could  now  congratulate  them 
selves  on  being  near  their  journey's  end  —  only 
twenty-five  miles  farther  to  go  !  But,  crossing 
the  vast  plain  over  which  Chicago  now  spreads, 
they  found  it  a  seemingly  endless  waste  of  melt 
ing  snow  and  slush,  almost  knee-deep  to  the  team  ; 
then,  for  the  first  time,  my  sister  lost  heart  and 
cried.  Was  that  the  beautiful  prairie  land  of 
which  they  had  heard  so  much,  and  where  they 
were  going  to  pass  their  lives  ?  But  hope  rose 
again  when  they  crossed  the  Des  Plaines  and 
came  into  the  grove-girt,  rolling  prairie  country, 
where  their  new  home  was  to  be,  in  a  land  of 
flowers  and  wide  horizons. 


Not  even  the  all-night  fires  could  keep  our  house 
warm  in  very  cold  weather.  After  my  older  bro 
ther  and  I  had  been  promoted  from  the  trundle- 
bed  (which  went  with  us  from  the  old  house  into 
the  new),  we  slept  in  an  unfinished  corner  of  the 
chamber  that  must  have  had  an  arctic  temperature 
on  many  a  winter  night.  The  bare  rafters  and 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  21 

rough  roof  boards  sloped  down  over  our  bed,  the 
wind  whistled  around  the  gable  and  perhaps  rat 
tled  a  loose  shingle,  and  sometimes  on  stormy 
nights  a  fine  snow  sifted  down  insidiously,  spray 
ing  ever  so  softly  any  part  of  nose  or  cheek  or 
ear  tip  left  peeping  out  from  under  the  bedclothes. 
It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  to  find  a  little 
white  heap  or  two,  mere  fairy  snowdrifts,  on  the 
spread  in  the  morning.  Oh,  but  how  we  slept ! 
And  what  brisk  fun  it  was,  jumping  out  of  bed  in 
the  stinging  cold  of  the  wintry  dawn,  to  catch  up 
our  clothes  and  scamper  downstairs  with  them, 
to  dress  before  the  crackling  fire  !  The  only  seri 
ous  discomfort  of  those  nights,  that  haunts  my 
memory,  was  waking  up,  and  perhaps  lying  awake, 
with  cold  feet.  To  remedy  that,  my  brother  and 
I  used  to  run  out  into  the  snow  barefoot,  just  be 
fore  going  to  bed.  The  excruciating  ache  caused 
by  this  heroic  treatment  reacted  in  a  glow  that 
would  commonly  last  all  night. 

In  the  course  of  time  our  corner  of  the  attic 
was  done  off  and  we  had  a  white-plastered  room 
to  sleep  in  and  keep  our  chests  in,  like  the  rooms 
our  sisters  occupied  in  the  other  end  of  the  house. 
But  there  was  an  "under  the  eaves"  part  that 
always  remained  unfinished.  That,  in  my  earliest 
years,  was  the  lurking  place  of  phantoms  ;  and 
there  was  a  den  of  impish  creatures  behind  the 


22  MY  OWN   STORY 

great  chimney.  My  father  belonged  to  the  militia, 
and  had  been  called  out  to  resist  a  threatened 
landing  of  the  British  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gene- 
see,  in  the  war  of  1812.  The  musket  he  had  car 
ried  in  that  bloodless  expedition  leaned  at  the 
mouth  of  the  den  ;  no  mere  inanimate  stock  and 
barrel,  but  a  dumb  sentinel,  conscious  of  the  mys 
teries  it  guarded,  and  ready  day  and  night  to  do 
its  solemn  duty.  It  kept  a  very  special  lookout 
for  small  boys.  How  real  a  thing  it  was  to  me, 
in  that  unfriendly  character,  may  be  inferred  from 
a  naive  reply  I  made  when  one  of  my  sisters  asked 
why  I  always  shied  in  passing  near  that  corner.  I 
said,  "  I  'm  afraid  the  old  musket  will  snap  at  me  !" 
I  had  seen  my  father  take  it  down  and  try  the  old 
flint  lock,  and  had  marveled  at  his  temerity. 

I  never  had  a  good  look  at  one  of  the  impish 
creatures,  but  I  knew  just  what  they  were  like. 
They  had  no  bodies,  nor  much  in  the  way  of  heads, 
for  that  matter,  their  faces  being  set  flat  on  their 
little  straight  legs,  like  the  tops  of  milking-stools. 
But  they  were  only  about  one  half  or  one  quarter 
the  size  of  milking-stools.  Neither  had  I  ever 
really  heard  them,  but  the  certainty  that  they  pat 
tered  off  on  their  little  legs  when  they  saw  me 
coming,  and  then  chuckled  and  whispered  and 
leered,  away  back  in  their  black  hole,  could  n't 
have  been  whipped  out  of  me. 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  23 

Among  the  heirlooms  which  time  had  stranded 
in  our  unfinished  attic  were  some  weaving-frames, 
cards  for  carding  wool,  a  hackle,  and  our  grand 
mother  Willey's  small  flax  spinning-wheel,  all 
which  had  gone  out  of  use.  As  long  ago  as  I  can 
remember,  the  unsold  wool  from  our  flock  was  no 
longer  carded  by  hand,  but  was  sent  to  a  factory, 
from  which  it  came  back  in  the  form  of  beautiful 
white  rolls,  to  be  spun  by  the  mother  and  sisters, 
on  the  big  spinning-wheel  downstairs.  The  spun 
yarn  went  again  to  the  mill,  where  it  was  woven 
and  dyed,  and  came  home  "fulled  cloth,"  to  be 
cut  up  into  garments,  fitted  and  stitched  and 
pressed  by  our  mother's  own  hand. 

VI 

The  world  was  all  a  mystery  to  me,  which  I  was 
forever  seeking  to  solve ;  but  the  greatest  mystery 
of  all  was  that  of  the  people  around  me.  I  can 
hardly  remember  a  time  when  I  did  not  try  to  enter 
somehow  into  their  consciousness  and  think  with 
their  thoughts.  I  would  sit  patiently  in  my  little 
chair,  and  watch  my  mother  rocking  and  knitting, 
something  within  me  yearning  to  fathom  some 
thing  in  her  ;  wondering  how  it  seemed  to  be  as 
old  as  she,  how  life  looked  to  her,  and  what  it  was 
that  made  her  chair  rock  and  her  hands  move, 
always  just  so,  and  not  otherwise.  When  I  was 


24  MY  OWN   STORY 

old  enough  to  be  taken  to  meeting,  I  would  enter 
tain  myself  by  studying  certain  persons  whose 
faces  fascinated  me,  endeavoring  to  guess  their 
secrets,  and  to  make  out  why  one  was  gray  and 
wrinkled,  another  young  and  handsome,  and  why 
one  was  always  so  distinctly  one's  own  self  and 
not  another's.  I  knew  they  never  had  any  such 
thoughts  as  troubled  a  little  boy  like  me,  but  what 
were  their  thoughts  ? 

At  times  it  seemed  to  me  that  while  the  people 
and  things  around  me  might  be  real,  I  was  a  sort 
of  dream.  Then  they  were  the  dream,  and  I  was 
the  sole  reality  ;  even  my  own  father  and  mother 
and  brothers  and  sisters  were  phantoms,  and  the 
earth  and  trees  and  clouds  were  pictures,  provided 
for  my  use  and  entertainment.  These  Sittings 
across  my  inner  consciousness  would  hardly  reach 
the  surface  of  my  thoughts  ;  if  ever  they  did,  I 
was  sensible  enough  to  perceive  that  they  were 
the  idlest  illusions,  and  I  early  outgrew  them. 

But  the  feeling  that  everything  was  provided 
and  prearranged  for  me  was  more  persistent.  In 
visible  beings  surrounded  and  watched  over  me, 
and  shaped  the  world  and  all  things  for  my  good. 
They  knew  all  that  I  did  or  thought  or  felt ;  they 
were  so  near  and  so  real  that  I  sometimes  talked 
to  them,  and  was  sure  they  whispered  to  me, 
though  I  could  never  quite  make  out  what  they 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  25 

said.  This  belief  —  if  anything  so  formless  and 
unreasoned  can  be  called  a  belief  —  was  wholly 
instinctive,  and  could  not  have  been  suggested  by, 
as  it  probably  antedated,  any  teaching  I  received 
regarding  God  and  the  angels.  God,  according 
to  my  earliest  conception,  was  a  big  man,  taller 
than  our  well-sweep ;  and  angels  were  great  white 
things  with  wings.  My  invisibles  had  nothing  so 
tangible  as  wings,  and  were  as  bodiless  as  the 
breeze  that  brushed  my  hair.  The  sense  of  their 
immediate  presence  became  gradually  obscured  ; 
but  even  after  I  was  old  enough  to  argue  my 
self  out  of  it,  I  never  quite  lost  the  feeling  of 
their  oversight  and  guidance,  —  the  feeling  which 
I  have  elsewhere  commemorated,  attempting  to 
define  what  is  so  indefinable  :  — 

"  The  haunting  faith,  the  shadowy  superstition, 

That  I  was  somehow  chosen,  the  special  care 
Of  Powers  that  led  me  through  life's  changeful  vision, 
Spirits  and  influences  of  earth  and  air." 

Problems  which  have  baffled  the  greatest  minds 
oppressed  me  at  a  very  early  age.  I  can  remem 
ber  lying  on  my  back  under  an  orchard  tree,  when 
I  could  n't  have  been  more  than  eight  or  nine 
years  old,  gazing  up  through  the  boughs  into  the 
blue  depths  of  the  sky,  and  trying  to  think  of  time 
and  space,  until  my  inmost  sense  ached  with  the 
effort.  It  was  the  beginning  of  time  that  troubled 


26  MY   OWN   STORY 

me,  for  it  must  have  had  a  beginning ;  and  yet  — 
what  was  before  that  ?  And  there  must  be  a  limit 
to  the  sky ;  but  when  I  conceived  of  that  limit  as 
a  great  blank  wall,  no  matter  how  far  away,  the 
same  difficulty  met  me,  —  what  was  beyond  that 
wall  ?  My  older  brother  seemed  never  to  have 
thought  of  such  things,  and  hardly  to  know  what 
I  meant  when  I  spoke  of  them.  I  could  never  be 
satisfied  with  my  mother's  answer  when  I  carried 
my  questions  to  her,  —  "  Those  are  things  nobody 
can  understand," — and  I  wondered  how  it  could 
satisfy  her.  It  was  no  explanation  to  say  that  God 
made  the  world,  unless  somebody  could  tell  me 
who  made  God,  or  how  he  made  himself,  and 
what  was  before  God  was. 

VII 

I  was  brought  up  under  the  shadow  of  the  Cal 
vinism  of  those  days,  and  listened  to  its  preachings 
and  teachings,  sitting  in  the  straight-backed  pew 
of  the  meeting-house  or  on  a  bench  of  the  Sunday- 
school.  Sunday  was  a  day  of  irksome  restraint 
and  gloom.  It  began  at  sundown  on  Saturday, 
and  ended  at  sundown  on  Sunday,  and  sometimes 
a  little  earlier  for  us  boys,  if  the  afternoon  chanced 
to  be  overcast,  and  we  could  persuade  our  mother 
that  it  was  time  to  relieve  the  pressure  and  let 
our  youthful  spirits  effervesce.  Fortunately  she 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  27 

was  more  liberal  than  her  creed,  and  although  any 
thing  like  games  or  sports  was  prohibited  in  the 
hours  that  were  to  be  kept  "holy,"  and  a  certain 
amount  of  serious  reading  was  enjoined,  we  gen 
erally  had  the  freedom  of  the  barn  and  fields  and 
orchard  before  and  after  church.  No  work  was 
performed  except  the  necessary  chores. 

Church-going  was  rigidly  observed.  Our  meet 
ing-house  was  at  Ogden  Centre,  a  mile  away  as 
the  crows  flew  when  they  flew  straight ;  it  was 
considerably  farther  around  by  the  road.  Every 
Sunday  morning  the  one-horse  wagon  was  brought 
to  the  door  about  the  time  the  ringing  of  the  first 
bell  sent  its  loud  bim-bom  over  the  woods  and 
farms  and  into  our  hearts,  with  all  its  solemn  asso- 
.  ciations.  The  mother,  in  her  best  black  gown, 
and  with  her  foot-stove,  if  the  weather  was  cold, 
the  father,  freshly  shaved,  in  his  high  black  stock 
and  equally  uncomfortable  tall  black  hat,  and  such 
of  the  sisters  as  were  at  home,  filled  the  two  broad 
seats,  with  perhaps  one  of  us  youngsters  wedged 
in,  though  we  preferred  to  walk  in  good  weather ; 
then  the  vehicle  moved  out  of  the  front  gate,  and 
joined  the  procession  of  wagons  going  in  the  same 
direction,  impelled  by  the  same  pious  duty.  With 
the  foot-stove  or  without  it  went  luncheons  for 
the  noonday  hour,  for  the  religious  exercises  were 
an  all-day  affair,  with  forenoon  and  afternoon  ser- 


28  MY  OWN   STORY 

vices,  and  the  Bible-class  and  Sunday-school  in  the 
interval  which  the  minister  took  for  rest  between 
his  sermons.  It  was  not  supposed  that  his  hear 
ers  needed  rest.  There  were  sheds  for  the  vehi 
cles,  and  the  man  who  was  kind  to  his  beasts 
usually  put  into  his  wagon  with  the  family  sand 
wiches  a  small  bag  of  grain  for  his  team.  The 
services  began  at  half  past  ten,  and  were  over  at 
half  past  two,  unless  the  afternoon  sermon  was 
"lengthy,"  as  it  was  very  apt  to  be:  four  hours 
of  doctrine  and  edification  on  which  Heaven  was 
supposed  to  smile ;  four  hours  of  light  and  sun 
shine  and  recreation  stricken  out  of  our  lives  on 
that  so-called  day  of  rest. 

I  can  remember  how  utterly  vacuous  I  felt,  in 
both  mind  and  body,  at  the  end  of  that  exhausting 
ordeal.  Often  one  of  the  family  would  remain  at 
home,  to  take  care  of  the  house,  and  of  my  younger 
brother,  five  years  my  junior,  before  he  was  old 
enough  to  be  subjected  to  that  long  confinement. 
Happy  the  day  and  blissful  the  chance  when  that 
care -taking  was  assigned  to  me.  I  was  never 
lonely  when  left  alone,  yet  I  was  always  glad  when 
I  saw  the  dust  and  heard  the  rumble  of  vehicles 
coming  home  from  meeting.  I  knew  how  hungry 
everybody  would  be,  and  never  failed  to  have  the 
pot  and  kettle  boiling. 

My  mother  was  a  woman  of  strong  devotional 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  29 

feelings,  and  with  an  unquestioning  faith  in  a 
divine  Providence  and  in  immortality.  She  no 
more  doubted  that  eternal  life  awaited  her  in  the 
blissful  society  of  friends  she  had  known  here 
than  that  she  should  awaken  in  the  morning  after 
a  normal  night's  sleep.  This  belief  seemed  inher 
ent  in  her,  and  she  loved  to  dwell  upon  it.  The 
doctrines  of  total  depravity  and  eternal  torment 
she  accepted  on  the  authority  of  her  church  ;  but 
that  they  were  external  to  her  spiritual  nature  I 
am  convinced,  for  the  reason  that  she  never  in 
sisted  upon  them,  nor  even  mentioned  them,  as  I 
now  recall,  in  her  endeavors  to  impress  upon  us 
younger  children  the  necessity  for  a  "  change  of 
heart."  Three  of  my  sisters  became  church  mem 
bers  in  their  girlhood.  I  think  my  older  brother 
also  joined  the  church ;  if  he  did,  he  became  a 
backslider.  He  got  "  converted  "  in  the  tremen 
dous  excitement  of  revival  meetings,  but  in  him 
the  exuberance  of  unreflecting  animal  spirits  did 
not  permit  the  religious  feeling  to  strike  perma 
nent  root. 

My  father  was  a  constant  church-goer,  and  he 
at  one  time  led  the  choir.  He  never  became  a 
communicant,  not  because  he  had  leanings  toward 
skepticism,  but  because  he  had  not  consciously 
"  experienced  religion."  If  right  living  constitutes 
righteousness,  there  was  no  more  righteous  man  in 


30  MY   OWN   STORY 

the  church  than  he  was  out  of  it.  But  he  had  not 
met  with  the  change  of  heart  which  was  deemed 
essential  to  an  admission  to  its  fold.  He  was  at 
times  persuaded  by  our  mother  to  conduct  family 
worship,  but  he  lacked  the  gift  of  prayer  in  which 
she  abounded  ;  and  I  recall  painful  occasions  when, 
as  we  all  knelt  at  our  chairs,  he  broke  down  in 
his  supplication,  becoming  stranded,  so  to  speak, 
with  his  burden  ;  whereupon  she  would  sail  in  and 
take  it  up,  and  on  a  full  tide  of  eloquence  bear  it 
into  port. 

I  had  something  of  my  mother's  natural  reli 
gious  feeling,  yet  not  all  the  pains  of  perdition 
preached  by  imported  revivalists — which,  in  the 
dim  candle-light,  amid  the  misty  exhalations,  the 
sobbings  and  meanings,  of  the  evening  meetings, 
frightened  my  mates  and  acquaintances  into  seek 
ing  the  "anxious  seat"  —  could  terrify  me  into 
following  their  example.  Something  granitic  within 
me  resisted  all  such  influences.  Whatever  intel 
ligence  and  spiritual  perception  I  had  revolted 
against  the  threatenings  hurled  down  upon  us  by 
those  pulpit  prophets  of  wrath,  and  I  sat  cold  and 
critical,  at  times  even  cynical,  I  fear,  when  the 
exhorters  shouted,  and  some  of  the  worst  boys  I 
knew,  recently  convicted  of  sin,  got  hold  of  me 
and  implored  me  to  come  forward,  be  prayed  for, 
and  gain  a  hope. 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  31 

I  prayed  by  myself,  frequently  aloud,  when  I 
was  walking  alone  in  the  fields  ;  prayed  earnestly 
that  the  truth  might  be  shown  to  me,  opening  my 
heart  to  it  like  a  flower  to  the  light,  and  making 
vows  to  follow  wherever  it  led,  to  live  by  it  and 
confess  it,  at  whatever  cost.  I  remember  doing 
this  when  I  was  about  twelve  years  old.  But  the 
more  I  thought  of  the  fall  of  man,  total  depravity, 
the  scheme  of  redemption,  and  kindred  tenets,  the 
more  strongly  they  impressed  me  as  being  unnat 
ural,  and  humanly  contrived.  Once  I  became  an 
gry  with  a  sled  I  was  making,  the  pieces  of  which 
would  not  fit  according  to  my  plan.  I  gave  it  a 
vindictive  kick.  Then  I  checked  myself  and  said, 
"  That 's  like  what  they  say  God  did  when  he 
made  the  world  and  found  it  did  n't  suit  him."  I 
was  calmed  and  shamed,  and  at  once  set  about 
putting  the  pieces  together. 

I  was  always  wondering  at  the  beauty  and  mys 
tery  of  the  earth  and  sky,  —  the  air  in  its  place, 
the  water  in  its  place,  the  birds  adapted  to  their 
life,  the  fishes  to  theirs,  the  growth  of  trees  and 
grass  and  flowers,  the  sun  by  day,  and  by  night 
the  moon  and  stars;  and  I  never  once  imagined 
that  these  visible  miracles  could  have  come  about 
by  any  sort  of  chance.  I  had  a  vague  conception 
of  a  law  of  adaptation  in  nature,  some  power 
that  kept  the  balance  of  things,  which  in  later 


32  MY   OWN   STORY 

years  the  theories  of  evolution  and  the  survival  of 
the  fittest  tended  to  confirm  and  explain.  I  clung 
intuitively  to  a  belief  in  divine  Providence  and  an 
intelligent  Source  of  Life ;  not  in  consequence 
of  the  religious  instructions  I  received,  but  rather 
in  spite  of  them.  I  say  in  spite  of  them,  because 
I  regard  those  preachings  and  teachings  as  hav 
ing  been  distinctly  harmful  to  me  in  many  ways. 
They  cast  a  shadow  over  my  childhood,  and  en 
shrouded  in  baleful  gloom  even  the  Sun  of  Right 
eousness.  It  was  not  until  long  after  I  got  away 
from  them  that  I  came  back  to  the  Bible  with 
a  fresh  sense  of  the  beauty  of  its  literature,  and 
of  the  spiritual  insight  and  power  that  illumine 
the  best  parts  of  it,  and  make  it,  above  all  other 
books,  the  Word  of  God. 

VIII 

With  her  strong  devotional  feelings  and  a  sen 
sitive  temperament,  my  mother  possessed  great 
energy  of  character.  She  had  taught  school  in 
her  girlhood,  and  was  always  ambitious  of  giving 
her  own  children  a  good  education.  We  all  had 
what  the  district  school  could  afford  ;  and  it  was 
chiefly  owing  to  her  strong  determination  that  my 
two  younger  sisters  were  sent  to  "  select  schools  " 
at  Rochester  and  Spencer's  Basin.  Our  father  did 
not  oppose  their  going,  but  the  family  means 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  33 

were  limited,  and  he  would  often  say  that  he 
"  could  n't  see  where  the  money  was  to  come 
from  "  to  provide  things  which  her  rigid  economy 
rendered  possible.  By  the  exercise  of  that  and 
by  managing  the  "  butter  and  cheese  money,"  of 
which  she  had  the  control,  she  contrived  to  send 
the  girls  away  to  school.  Once  when  I  was  at 
home  sick  with  a  cold,  and  was  supposed  to  be 
asleep  on  the  lounge,  I  heard  her  say  to  my  father 
that  she  wanted  enough  of  the  wheat  and  wool 
money  saved  to  "  educate  John  with  ;  "  to  which 
he  replied,  "  What  good  will  it  ever  do  him  ?"  Yet 
I  knew  that  he  was  as  proud  as  she  was  of  what 
they  had  heard  of  my  progress  in  my  studies,  and 
as  desirous  of  doing  for  me  all  their  circumstances 
would  allow.  From  many  a  task  I  was  saved  be 
cause  I  was  seen  with  a  book  in  my  hand. 

My  father  had  almost  too  delicate  a  constitution 
for  the  life  of  hard  labor  to  which  he  was  born. 
He  had  a  talent  for  music,  of  which  he  was  pas 
sionately  fond,  and  which  he  used  to  teach  in  the 
early  pioneer  days.  I  can  remember  seeing  him 
so  much  affected  by  the  singing  of  the  country 
choir  in  the  old  meeting-house,  during  which  part 
of  the  service  it  was  customary  for  the  congrega 
tion  to  stand,  that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  down, 
overcome  by  his  emotions.  I  might  not  have 
guessed  what  the  trouble  was,  but  for  our  mother 


34  MY   OWN   STORY 

saying  to  him  after  meeting  that  she  should  think 
he  might  control  his  feelings  a  little  better ;  she 
did  n't  consider  the  singing  anything  so  very  fine. 
"Maybe  not,"  he  replied.  "But  it  brings  up 
something  —  I  can't  tell  what !  "  And  his  voice 
choked  with  the  recollection.  One  of  the  satisfac 
tions  of  his  life  was  the  Sunday  evening  gathering 
in  our  sitting  room,  when  neighbors  would  some 
times  come  in  and  unite  with  him  and  my  sisters 
(one  of  whom  had  an  unusually  good  voice)  in 
singing  the  old  fashioned  hymns. 

He  had  an  irritable  temper,  but  he  was  a  kind 
and  indulgent  parent,  and  in  my  childhood  I  was 
fonder  of  him  than  of  anybody  else  in  the  world, 
even  our  mother.  When  he  sat  down  with  us  in 
the  evening,  I  liked  to  climb  upon  his  knees,  put 
my  arms  around  his  neck,  and  have  him  "baird  " 
me,  that  is,  rub  his  beard  of  two  or  three  days' 
growth  against  my  cheek,  while  I  hugged  him 
affectionately.  Our  mother  undoubtedly  had  as 
deep  and  sincere  a  love  for  us,  and  would  perhaps 
have  done  even  more  for  us  than  he,  but  somehow 
I  never  got  quite  so  near  to  her  heart  as  I  did 
to  his.  She  was  far  more  strict  than  he,  in  the 
discipline  of  us  children ;  fortunately  for  us,  no 
doubt,  although  I  certainly  did  not  think  so  at  the 
time.  More  than  once  when  she  was  about  to 
punish  me  for  some  offense,  he  would  exclaim, 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  35 

"  I  '11  attend  to  him  ! "  —  take  me  sternly  by  the 
collar,  lead  me  out  into  the  orchard,  cut  a  very 
small  switch,  give  me  two  or  three  very  light 
strokes  with  it  across  my  back,  then  say,  in  the 
lovingest  tones,  "  There !  now  be  a  good  boy,  and 
mind  your  mother !  "  On  my  return  to  the  house 
she  would  ask,  "  Well !  did  he  whip  you  ? "  With 
hypocritical  woe  in  my  features,  I  would  falter, 
"Yes!"  at  which  her  just  remark  would  very 
likely  be,  "  I  don't  believe  he  half  punished  you ! 
I  've  a  good  mind  to  punish  you  over  again  !  " 
But  I  don't  remember  that  she  ever  did. 

He  early  instilled  into  us  a  detestation  of  dis 
honest  practices  and  of  the  shirking  of  obliga 
tions;  and  was  himself  ever  a  model  of  upright 
conduct  and  neighborly  dealing.  He  was  con 
sulted  by  many  persons  in  common  matters  of 
business,  and  strangers  came  from  long  distances 
to  get  his  opinion  of  horses,  for  which  he  had  a 
great  love,  and  of  which  he  had  an  intuitive  know 
ledge.  For  nearly  twenty  years  he  was  collector 
of  the  town  taxes,  an  office  that  gave  him  a  plea 
sant  occupation  in  winter,  and  opportunities  for 
meeting  all  sorts  of  people,  in  his  all-day  rides. 

During  all  that  time  he  was  also  a  town  con 
stable,  and  served  many  a  writ.  But  he  was  a 
peacemaker,  caring  more  for  the  promotion  of 
right  and  good  will  than  for  securing  a  fee.  I  well 


36  MY  OWN   STORY 

remember  his  advice  to  an  angry  man  who  once 
came  with  a  summons  for  him  to  serve  :  "  You  're 
foolish  to  sue !  Go  and  talk  it  over  with  him  in  a 
neighborly  spirit,  and  meet  him  halfway.  Don't 
rush  into  a  lawsuit." 

He  had  a  horror  of  debt,  being  perhaps  over 
cautious  in  that  regard.  He  took  up  originally 
only  forty  acres  of  land,  but  he  might  have  had 
four  or  five  times  as  much  if  he  had  been  willing 
to  borrow  money  to  pay  for  it.  For  ten  acres  ad 
ditional  he  afterwards  paid  more  than  three  or  four 
hundred  would  have  cost,  at  the  government  price. 
"  I  would  do  just  so  again,"  he  would  say.  "  I  've 
seen  too  much  of  the  wreck  and  ruin  caused  by 
debt."  He  no  doubt  had  in  mind  an  instance  which 
had  come  very  near  to  him  and  my  mother.  My 
grandfather,  Alfred  Willey,  had  been  a  well-to-do 
farmer  in  Westmoreland,  and  had  lost  all  his  pro 
perty  by  becoming  security  for  a  friend,  —  "  House 
and  home,  everything,  even  to  the  old  grindstone, 
just  by  signing  his  name  ! "  as  my  mother  used  to 
say,  in  speaking  of  the  family  disaster. 

My  father  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  good 
stories,  which  he  would  tell  one  after  another  as 
long  as  he  had  listeners,  commonly  linking  them 
together  with  "  That  puts  me  in  mind,"  or  "  That 
reminds  me  again."  I  can  see  him  now,  in  his 
favorite  attitude  on  a  winter's  evening,  after  light- 


A   BACKWOODS  BOYHOOD  37 

ing  his  pipe  with  a  coal,  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  a  pitcher  of  cider  warming  beside  him  on 
the  hearth,  and  his  face  in  a  genial  glow,  while  he 
exercised  his  powers  of  humorous  mimicry,  to  the 
amusement  of  us  children  and  any  guests  that 
had  dropped  in. 

IX 

After  my  grandfather  Willey  lost  his  West 
moreland  property  by  "  signing  his  name,"  he 
moved  with  his  family  to  Ogden,  where  he  died 
when  I  was  two  years  and  nine  months  old.  It 
was  my  first  sight  and  knowledge  of  death,  and  I 
remember  how  bewildered  I  was  by  it.  I  asked 
why  they  "  put  grandpa  in  that  cradle."  I  could  n't 
have  been  present  at  the  burial,  but  it  must  have 
been  explained  to  me,  for  the  gloom  of  it  left 
upon  me  a  life-long  impression.  I  recollect  riding 
with  my  parents  at  twilight,  sitting  in  my  little 
chair  between  their  feet  in  the  wagon,  and  ask 
ing  mournfully,  at  every  lonesome  -  looking  spot 
we  passed,  "  Is  this  where  grandpa  was  buried  ? " 
It  was  as  if  nobody  had  ever  died  before,  and 
somebody  should  have  prevented  so  dreadful  a 
thing  happening  to  my  good  grandpa.1 

1  I  recall  only  one  other  circumstance  of  as  early  an  ascer 
tained  date.  This  was  a  tremendous  hailstorm  that  occurred 
one  Sunday  in  June  of  the  same  year  (1830),  when  all  the  win- 


38  MY    OWN   STORY 

After  her  husband's  death  my  grandmother 
Willey  lived  with  her  married  sons  and  daughters, 
with  all  of  whom  she  was  in  a  manner  welcome  ; 
yet  her  presence  was  a  cloud  under  whatever 
roof.  The  loss  of  the  Westmoreland  home  was 
but  one  of  many  misfortunes  that  saddened  her 
later  years.  After  the  removal  to  Ogden  she  had 
broken  her  ankle  by  falling  with  her  horse  on  a 
rough  backwoods  road,  the  bones  had  been  badly 
set,  and  she  walked  on  the  side  of  her  foot,  limp 
ing  painfully  with  a  cane.  In  her  younger  days 
she  had  been  a  woman  of  remarkable  vigor  and 
courage,  and  had  once  made  a  horseback  journey 
from  Westmoreland  to  her  old  home  in  East  Had- 
dam,  Ct,  carrying  all  the  way  thither  and  back  a 
two-year-old  child  before  her  on  the  saddle.  Un 
fortunately  she  did  not  have  the  religious  faith 
which  her  daughter,  my  mother,  enjoyed,  to  sus 
tain  her  in  her  afflictions ;  and  her  complaints 
were  wearisome  to  hear.  She  must  have  been  a 
sore  trial  to  our  parents,  but  I  believe  they  made 
the  best  of  it,  and  I  think  my  older  sisters  under 
stood  and  commiserated  her  condition ;  but  to  us 

dow  panes  on  two  sides  of  the  house  were  shattered.  To  get 
me  out  of  the  way  of  the  terror  and  danger  of  it,  my  mother  put 
me  on  her  bed,  from  which  I  watched  her  stepping  cautiously 
around  with  a  broom,  sweeping  the  hailstones  and  broken  glass 
into  a  heap  on  the  hearth  ;  a  scene  as  vivid  in  my  memory  to-day 
as  anything  in  my  life  that  has  happened  since. 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  39 

boys  her  coming  was  portentous  of  storm  and  her 
going  an  occasion  of  glee.  I  may  have  owed  to 
her  the  suggestion  of  Grandmother  Rigglesty,  in 
Neighbor  Jackwood,  but  it  was  not  at  all  her  por 
trait  that  I  sketched  in  that  aggressively  unami- 
able  character.  After  I  was  old  enough  to  appre 
ciate  her  truly  admirable  traits  and  the  nature  of 
the  calamities  that  had  broken  her,  I  felt  remorse 
for  my  childish  uncharitableness  towards  her,  and 
have  always  wished  that  I  might  atone  for  it  by  a 
kind  word  in  her  memory.  She  died  in  the  home 
of  a  daughter  in  Illinois.  I  never  saw  her  after 
I  was  about  nine  years  old. 

X 

It  was  always  a  great  event  in  my  boyhood 
when  my  father  would  take  me  with  him  to  Roch 
ester,  especially  if  I  could  be  indulged  with  a  sight 
of  the  Falls,  and  hear  once  more  the  story  of  Sam 
Patch's  fatal  jump.  After  about  my  eleventh 
year  that  marvel  of  nature  became  associated  in 
my  mind  with  a  yet  more  tragically  impressive 
circumstance.  A  cousin  of  mine,  a  young  mar 
ried  woman,  living  in  Rochester  on  a  bank  of  the 
Genesee,  went  one  winter  day  to  fill  a  pail  at  the 
water's  edge,  and  never  returned.  When  search 
was  made  for  her,  the  marks  of  her  fingers  were 
seen  on  the  snow-crusted  brink,  where  she  had 


40  MY  OWN   STORY 

evidently  slipped  and  fallen  into  the  river,  and 
struggled  in  vain  to  get  out.  The  finger-marks 
were  traced  for  two  or  three  rods  in  the  direction 
in  which  the  current  had  swept  her  on,  then  they 
disappeared.  It  was  four  or  five  days  before  her 
drowned  body  was  recovered,  off  the  lake  shore, 
near  the  mouth  of  the  river.  From  that  time  I 
could  never  behold  the  falls  without  picturing  the 
poor  girl's  horror  and  fear  as  she  felt  her  numbed 
and  wounded  fingers  slipping  from  the  icy  crust, 
and  saw  herself  borne  by  the  wild  rapids  to  inevi 
table  death  in  the  plunging  cataract  and  boiling 
gulf  below. 

XI 

Our  district  schoolhouse  was  at  a  crossing  of 
the  roads  half  a  mile  or  less  east  of  our  home.  It 
was  of  red  brick,  its  walls  were  cracked,  and  kept 
from  falling  asunder  by  iron  rods  passing  com 
pletely  through,  at  a  convenient  height  for  boys 
to  jump  up  to,  and  catch,  and  perform  gymnastic 
feats  on,  in  the  dingy  old  entry,  at  recess.  Gro 
tesque  methods  of  enforcing  discipline  among  the 
pupils  v  2re  in  vogue  in  those  days,  — "  sitting  on 
nothing,"  with  the  back  against  the  wall ;  "  hold 
ing  down  a  nail  in  the  floor,"  with  a  forefinger, 
in  a  painfully  stooping  posture  ;  standing  with  an 
arm  outstretched  and  a  pile  of  books  in  the  hand  ; 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  41 

"  licking  jackets,"  when  two  boys  who  had  quar 
reled  received  from  the  master  each  a  stout  switch, 
and  were  made  to  fight  out  their  feud  in  the  pre 
sence  of  the  edified  school,  he  himself  putting  in 
a  cut  for  example  when  they  were  too  tender  of 
each  other  and  did  not  hit  hard  enough.  The 
school  was  ungraded  and  the  methods  of  teaching 
were  primitive,  but  there  is  this  to  be  said  of  it, 
that  the  pupil  that  had  a  mind  for  self-improve 
ment  could  get  a  fair  common-school  education 
under  the  worst  teachers,  and  that  some  of  these 
were  far  better  than  the  system  they  represented. 
At  school  or  elsewhere  I  was  by  disposition 
the  least  quarrelsome  of  boys.  But  I  was  quick 
in  my  resentments,  and  liked  to  pay  all  debts 
promptly.  If  I  suffered  a  blow,  my  unregenerate 
notion  was  that  the  next  belonged  to  the  other 
fellow's  cheek,  not  to  mine,  and  that  when  such 
things  were  passing,  it  was  better  to  give  than 
to  receive.  Deep  down  in  my  heart  I  abominate 
warfare,  among  boys,  or  men,  or  nations  ;  and  be 
lieve  in  the  coming  time  when  mutual  good-will, 
forbearance,  and  the  love  of  righteousness  will 
usher  in  a  reign  of  peace.  Boys  are  ne  »,rer  the 
primitive  man  than  we  their  elders  are ;  r  there 
must  be  individual  growth  to  correspond  with  ra 
cial  progress,  before  the  so-called  natural  deprav 
ity  of  wild  beast  traits,  developed  in  the  struggle 


42  MY  OWN   STORY 

for  existence,  is  redeemed  in  them  by  the  spirit 
of  love,  or  transformed  into  power,  in  safer  condi 
tions.  The  wild  apple-tree  sprout  bears  thorns 
that  disappear  from  the  robust  stem.  A  boy  may 
be  so  well  born  that  he  will  pass  through  the  world 
without  conflict,  with  no  defense  but  his  wise, 
sweet,  gentle  nature.  But  such  are  rare  ;  and, 
for  my  part,  I  prefer  that  one  should  stand  up 
for  his  honor  and  his  right,  even  to  the  extent 
of  righting  for  them,  rather  than  yield  to  wrong 
because  he  is  a  milksop. 

As  I  look  back  now,  there  seem  to  have  been 
two  boys  in  me  ;  one  the  truly  gentle  boy,  shrink 
ing  from  contact  with  the  ruder  sort,  and  yearn 
ing  for  trustful  and  loving  comradeship  ;  the  other 
a  dormant  but  too  easily  roused  cave-dweller.  The 
savage  came  uppermost  in  two  or  three  minor 
battles  with  schoolmates,  and  in  one  furious  fight 
with  a  strange  boy  I  had  the  ill  fortune  to  en 
counter  at  a  militia  muster,  —  a  performance  that 
caused  me  infinite  humiliation  at  the  time,  on  ac 
count  of  its  publicity,  but  which  I  look  back  upon 
now  without  compunction,  since  it  was  undertaken 
in  defense  of  a  younger  companion. 

XII 

I  was  only  an  average  pupil  until  about  my  fif 
teenth  year,  when  a  slight  thing  gave  my  mind 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  43 

a  start.  In  what  was  called  the  "back  part 
of  the  spelling-book"  there  was  a  list  of  foreign 
words  and  phrases  with  their  English  equivalents 
affixed.  We  had  not  been  required  to  learn  these, 
and  perhaps  they  interested  me  the  more  for  this 
reason.  I  went  through  them  eagerly,  committed 
them  to  memory,  and  conceived  an  ardent  desire 
to  study  a  foreign  language. 

I  wished  to  have  some  necessary  books  bought 
for  me,  but  money  for  such  things  was  scarce  in 
our  family,  and  no  doubt  my  parents  thought  it 
better  that  I  should  confine  myself  to  studies  that 
were  taught  in  school.  An  invalid  cousin  of  mine, 
a  young  lady  who  had  had  a  boarding-school  edu 
cation,  heard  of  my  ambition,  and  on  her  deathbed 
directed  that  her  French  books  should  be  given  to 
me.  There  were  only  three  of  these,  —  a  gram 
mar  of  the  old-fashioned  sort,  a  small  dictionary, 
and  a  reader,  —  but  I  never  in  my  life  felt  richer 
than  when  the  precious  volumes  were  brought 
home  and  put  into  my  hands. 

It  was  probably  all  the  better  for  my  mental 
discipline  that  the  language  was  not  made  easy  to 
me  by  our  more  modern  methods.  Yet  I  did  not 
find  it  hard  ;  there  was  a  joy  in  acquiring  it  which 
made  a  pastime  of  the  dry  conjugations  and  of 
the  slow  process  of  reading  with  the  help  of  a 
dictionary. 


44  MY   OWN    STORY 

I  did  not  find  much  difficulty  with  anything  but 
the  pronunciation.  The  textbooks  gave  me  little 
help  in  that,  and  after  the  death  of  my  cousin  I 
did  not  know  anybody  who  had  the  slightest 
acquaintance  with  the  language.  I  went  through 
the  grammar  and  reader,  and  a  Telemaque  which 
I  found  in  the  town  library,  and  so  got  to  read 
and  translate  the  language  before  I  ever  heard 
it  spoken. 

I  took  other  books  from  the  library,  which  was 
supported  by  subscribers,  of  whom  my  father  was 
one.1  I  read  Ivanhoe  with  wonder  and  delight, 
and  in  consequence  of  the  historical  curiosity  it 
excited  in  me,  took  out  next  an  abridged  Hume's 
History  of  England.  I  read  Cooper's  Spy  and 

1  In  a  letter  written  for  the  centennial  celebration  of  the  settle 
ment  of  Ogden,  August  7,  1902,  I  said  of  this  library :  "  I  dare 
not  now  attempt  to  tell  how  much  I  owe  to  that  small  but 
well-chosen  collection  of  books  —  how  the  common  world  was 
transformed  for  me  by  the  poets  and  romancers  that  smiled  on 
me  from  those  obscure  shelves  !  It  was  surely  a  colony  of 
enlightened  and  public-spirited  settlers  who,  as  soon  as  food  and 
shelter  were  secured,  there  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness,  added 
to  the  rude  life  they  hewed  out  of  it  life's  inestimable  ornament, 
literature.  Ogden  doubtless  has  a  vastly  more  comprehensive 
and  attractive  library  to-day ;  but  the  value  of  such  an  institu 
tion  depends,  after  all,  upon  what  we  ourselves  bring  to  it ;  and 
it  is  well  to  remember  that  the  few  books  that  nourish  vitally  the 
eager  mind  are  better  than  richly  furnished  alcoves  amid  which 
we  browse  languidly  and  loiter  with  indifference." 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  45 

Leather  Stocking  Tales,  James's  Richelieu  and 
Henri  Quatre,  Croly's  Salathiel,  and  Ingraham's 
Lafitte,  the  Pirate  of  the  Gulf,  and  thought  them 
all  good. 

I  read  Byron  with  the  greatest  avidity,  and  be 
came  possessed  of  a  copy  of  Scott's  Lady  of  the 
Lake,  whole  pages  of  which  —  I  might  almost  say 
whole  cantos  —  I  was  soon  able  to  recite  from 
memory.  I  was  even  absorbed  in  Pope's  Essay 
on  Man,  regarding  it  as  the  most  perfect  combi 
nation  possible  of  sublime  philosophy  and  lucid 
verse.  I  read  much  of  Shakespeare,  and  tried  to 
read  more.  Othello,  King  Lear,  The  Tempest, 
Hamlet,  Timon  of  Athens,  and  a  few  other  plays 
interested  me  profoundly ;  but  I  could  not  get 
through  Love's  Labour  's  Lost.  As  I  look  back 
now,  I  am  surprised  at  the  boyish  audacity  with 
which  I  criticised  works  so  famous.  The  indecen 
cies  and  whimsical  conceits  I  found  in  the  plays 
offended  my  taste,  and  I  thought  the  tragical  end 
ing  of  Hamlet  too  melodramatic,  although  I  did 
not  have  that  word  for  what  I  felt  to  be  forced 
and  artificial  in  that  homicidal  scene.  The  rhymed 
endings  of  heroic  blank-verse  speeches  made  my 
heart  sink. 

I  went  through  a  volume  of  Plutarch  because  I 
liked  it,  and  Rollin's  Ancient  History  because  I 
thought  it  one  of  those  things  a  well-informed 


46  MY  OWN   STORY 

youth  ought  not  to  neglect.  A  similar  sense  of 
duty  carried  me  over  dreary  tracts  of  Aiken's  Brit 
ish  Poets,  which  I  blamed  myself  for  finding  dull, 
and  Pope's  Homer,  which  I  thought  I  ought  to 
like  for  the  reason  that  Homer  and  Pope  were  both 
celebrated  poets.  But  the  couplets  that  I  found 
so  cogent  and  convincing  in  the  Essay  on  Man  be 
came  monotonous  in  the  Iliad,  and  left  me  un 
moved.  Of  other  books  I  remember  reading  at 
that  age,  I  may  mention  Abercrombie's  Intellec 
tual  Powers,  Blair's  Rhetoric,  some  volumes  of 
the  Spectator,  the  Arabian  Nights  and  Gulliver's 
Travels,  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Under 
standing  (abridged  edition),  works  on  Phrenology 
and  Physiology,  Paradise  Lost,  and  the  Pirate's 
Own  Book.  When  I  had  money  of  my  own  I 
purchased  books  in  Rochester,  among  others  some 
volumes  of  a  Bibliotheque  Choisie  de  la  Littera- 
ture  Fran£aise,  of  which  I  best  recall  Alfred  de 
Vigny's  fine  historical  romance,  Cinq-Mars.  I 
procured  Latin  textbooks,  and  took  up  the  study 
of  that  language,  also  without  a  teacher. 

Up  to  the  time  of  my  intellectual  awakening,  I 
had  scarcely  any  clear  conception  of  the  use  and 
meaning  of  English  grammar,  although  I  could 
parse  fluently  and  recite  all  the  rules.  The  study 
of  another  language  threw  a  flood  of  light  on  the 
grammar  of  my  own,  like  a  lantern  shining  back- 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  47 

ward  on  a  path  one  has  been  treading  in  the  dark. 
My  mind  also  awoke  to  the  real  value  of  other 
branches,  of  which  only  a  parrot-like  knowledge 
had  been  required  of  me  hitherto.  And  "  compo 
sition  "  became  a  delight. 

XIII 

I  began  to  write  verses  when  I  was  thirteen, 
but  I  was  accused  by  some  of  my  mates  of  copy 
ing  them  out  of  books,  until  I  composed  an  acros 
tic  on  the  name  of  one  of  them.  As  it  was  a 
name  Mrs.  Hemans  and  Kirke  White  would  hardly 
have  cared  to  celebrate,  even  if  they  had  heard  of 
it,  and  as  the  ingenuity  of  altering  any  of  their 
lines  to  suit  it  would  have  been  considerable,  the 
charge  of  plagiarizing  was  not  pressed. 

After  I  was  thirteen  I  attended  only  the  winter 
term  of  the  school,  my  services  being  required  on 
the  farm  in  summer ;  but  the  teaching  I  missed 
was  probably  no  loss  to  me  when  my  mind  had 
become  independently  aroused.  In  the  hour's 
nooning  with  the  books  I  loved,  I  have  no  doubt 
but  I  learned  more  than  I  should  have  done  in  the 
whole  day's  routine  in  school.  I  almost  wonder 
now  at  the  extent  of  my  studies  and  readings 
while  I  was  doing  a  boy's  regular  work  on  the 
farm.  I  was  fond  of  sport,  and  liked  to  hunt 
and  fish  and  play  ball  and  fly  kites  as  well  as  most 


48  MY   OWN   STORY 

boys.  But  I  made  a  good  deal  of  "  odd  spells  " 
which  others  idled  away.  The  men  of  learning 
and  genius  I  read  about,  or  whose  writings  I 
admired,  caused  in  me  pangs  of  despairing  emula 
tion,  as  I  constantly  contrasted  their  high  achieve 
ments  with  my  own  petty,  unprofitable  life. 

It  was  not  alone  the  love  of  study  that  kept  me 
at  my  books.  I  saw  my  companions  give  them 
selves  up  to  idle  talk  and  amusement,  and  often 
wished  that  I  might  pass  my  days  as  carelessly  as 
they.  What  was  that  inward  scourge  which  chas 
tised  those  shallower  inclinations,  and  drove  me 
back  to  my  self-allotted  tasks  ?  Many  times  I 
asked  myself  this  question.  I  did  not  know  then 
how  much  may  be  acquired  in  the  course  of  a 
year  by  a  boy  engaged  in  almost  any  kind  of  work, 
who  gives  now  and  then  a  leisure  hour  to  earnest 
reading  and  study  without  a  teacher ;  but  I  was 
finding  it  out  by  experience. 

I  was  in  many  respects  fortunately  situated,  al 
though  I  did  not  know  it  at  the  time.  I  thought 
it  hard  that  I  could  not  have  the  educational  privi 
leges  which  some  boys  at  the  Basin  had,  and 
which  they  scorned  and  wasted.  I  had  a  cousin 
on  the  Willey  side  living  in  Geneseo,  where  I 
visited  him.  His  father  was  a  lawyer,  and  the 
son  had  all  the  advantages  of  an  academic  course, 
and  of  a  village  life,  simple  enough,  in  fact,  but 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  49 

cultured  and  elegant  in  comparison  with  my  own. 
He  was  two  or  three  years  older  than  I,  so  learned 
that  I  hardly  dared  speak  to  him  of  my  humble 
studies,  and  so  well  dressed  that  I  was  ashamed 
of  my  country  clothes,  as  I  knew  he  was,  when 
his  Geneseo  friends  saw  him  with  me  on  the  street. 
His  position  and  accomplishments  were  so  far  be 
yond  anything  I  could  hope  ever  to  attain  that  I 
went  home  with  a  very  poor  opinion  of  my  oppor 
tunities,  and  might  have  been  discouraged  from 
my  endeavors  at  self -improvement  if  I  had  not  pur 
sued  it  for  its  own  sake,  or  if  something  within  me 
deeper  than  discouragement  and  better  than  am 
bition  had  not  held  me  to  my  purpose.  I  was 
naturally  indolent,  and  it  was  probably  well  for  me 
that,  instead  of  circumstances  made  easy  for  me, 
I  had  obstacles  to  overcome. 

My  father  never  drove  his  boys  or  his  hired 
men.  I  generally  had  a  good  part  of  a  rainy 
day  to  myself,  and  often  afternoons,  when  work 
was  not  pressing.  I  nearly  always  had  a  book 
handy  which  I  could  snatch  up  between  whiles. 
I  fear  this  habit  was  a  source  of  annoyance  to  the 
family,  and  I  can  remember  hearing  the  frequent 
question,  "Where's  John?"  answered  with  tart 
impatience,  "  Oh,  he 's  got  his  nose  in  one  of  his 
everlasting  books  somewhere ! "  I  am  sorry  to 
say  I  did  not  always  take  my  nose  out  as  soon  as 


50  MY   OWN   STORY 

I  should  have  done.  My  ambition  did  not  invari 
ably  receive  that  encouragement  from  other  mem 
bers  of  the  family  which  could  have  been  desired. 
I  was  painfully  impressed  by  what  one  of  my  sis 
ters,  five  years  older  than  I,  once  said  of  preco 
cious  boys,  who  know  more  at  fourteen  or  fifteen 
than  they  ever  do  afterwards,  adding,  "I  guess 
that  is  going  to  be  the  way  with  John."  I  don't 
suppose  that  this  was  really  her  opinion,  but  it  was 
natural  to  think  that  any  branching  conceit  in  a 
younger  brother  should  be  kept  well  pruned.  Not 
that  I  ever  made  a  parade  of  my  acquirements. 
I  often  wished  that  my  reputation  for  reading  and 
study  had  been  less,  in  order  that  less  might  have 
been  expected  of  me.  I  knew  a  little  of  so  many 
things  that  I  was  credited  with  knowing  many 
more,  my  ignorance  of  which  was  often  a  source  of 
embarrassment  and  humiliation. 

XIV 

This  studiousness  on  my  part  developed  in  me 
an  independence  of  social  excitements  and  a  reli 
ance  on  my  own  inward  resources,  as  appeared  in 
the  way  I  spent  the  Fourth  of  July  when  I  was 
fifteen  years  old.  While  every  other  boy  in  the 
town  went  to  the  "  celebration,"  I  remained  at 
home,  entirely  alone,  with  no  company  but  my 
books  and  my  own  thoughts.  When  I  was  tired 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  51 

of  reading  —  for  I  had  weak  eyes,  and  could  never 
use  them  long  at  a  time  —  I  went  out  into  the  field 
and  hoed  corn  for  an  hour  or  two,  an  altogether 
voluntary  task.  Then  I  went  back  to  my  book 
and  my  frugal  dinner  which  I  prepared  myself  and 
ate  while  I  read  ;  then  returned  and  hoed  corn  for 
another  hour  in  the  afternoon.  The  exercise  re 
freshed  me  for  the  reading,  and  the  reading  made 
the  open  air  and  the  sunshine  and  the  society  of 
cawing  crows  and  wild  hawks,  sailing  over,  a  re 
newed  delight.  I  think  it  was  the  happiest  Fourth 
of  July  of  my  boyhood ;  and  I  did  not  envy  my 
brothers  the  uproarious  fun  they  had  to  tell  of 
when  they  came  home  at  night.  To  spend  an  en 
tire  day  in  work  seemed  to  me  a  wicked  waste  of 
time  and  opportunity  ;  but  to  break  it  up  with 
intervals  of  reading  and  study,  in  this  way,  was 
my  ideal  of  a  farm-boy's  life. 

In  the  way  of  literature  everything  was  grist 
that  came  to  my  mill.  I  even  have  an  affectionate 
recollection  of  two  or  three  old-fashioned  school- 
books.  The  Historical  Reader  had  a  new  interest 
for  me  after  I  had  read  Ivanhoe,  and  it  was  the  se 
lections  from  Milton  and  Shakespeare  in  Porter's 
Rhetorical  Reader  that  sent  me  to  Paradise  Lost 
and  Hamlet.  The  brief  extracts  from  the  poets 
in  Goold  Brown's  Grammar  had  for  me  an  indefin 
able  charm. 


52  MY  OWN   STORY 

I  was  not  particularly  good  in  arithmetic,  but 
algebra  appealed  powerfully  to  my  understanding, 
and  I  had  great  pleasure  in  it.  This  I  studied  in 
school  when  I  was  fifteen  and  sixteen. 

One  of  my  sisters  had  a  copy  of  Burritt's  As 
tronomy  and  Geography  of  the  Heavens,  which  I 
studied  by  myself,  tracing  out  the  principal  con 
stellations  visible  in  our  latitude,  and  learning 
pretty  thoroughly  all  that  was  then  popularly 
taught  concerning  the  stars  and  the  solar  system. 
This  was  welcome  food  to  my  reason  and  imagina 
tion. 

I  was  not,  however,  so  bookish  a  boy  as  this  con 
densed  and  continuous  account  of  my  studies  may 
seem  to  imply.  They  were  for  the  most  part  done 
at  odd  spells,  the  summer's  farm  work,  the  night 
and  morning  chores  in  winter,  sports  and  social 
recreations  occupying  always  the  greater  part  of 
my  time. 

The  weakness  of  the  eyes  I  have  mentioned 
was  another  hindrance.  There  was  no  trouble 
with  the  sight,  and  my  mother  used  to  say  that 
they  were  as  strong  as  any  child's  until  I  had 
the  measles,  which  left  them  irritable  and  with  a 
tendency  to  chronic  inflammation.  When  I  was 
twelve  years  old,  I  was  sent  to  Dr.  Munn,  an  ocu 
list  of  some  note,  in  Rochester,  to  have  my  eyes 
examined.  He  said  there  was  nothing  the  matter 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  53 

with  them  but  a  slight  congestion,  which  could 
be  quickly  remedied.  I  said  that  was  what  I  had 
come  for,  and  submitted  to  his  treatment.  He 
called  an  attendant  to  hold  my  head  on  the  pad 
of  the  chair,  and  proceeded  to  pass  a  short  curved 
lancet  around  each  eyeball,  between  it  and  the  lids, 
as  coolly  and  with  as  little  regard  for  my  outcries 
as  if  he  had  been  peeling  onions.  I  was  in  his 
chair  five  minutes,  and  his  fee  was  five  dollars. 
As  I  had  expected  nothing  more  than  a  prescrip 
tion,  I  had  only  a  two-dollar  note  with  me.  He 
took  the  money  from  my  pocketbook,  which  I 
blindly  handed  him,  bound  my  handkerchief  on 
my  bleeding  orbs,  saying  they  would  be  all  right 
in  a  day  or  two,  and  sent  me  home  by  the  neigh 
bor  who  had  brought  me,  and  who  had  witnessed 
the  treatment,  as  much  surprised  at  it  as  I  was. 
I  should  n't  have  regretted  the  pain,  intense  as  it 
was,  if  any  good  had  come  of  it ;  but  it  was  weeks 
before  my  eyes  fully  recovered  from  that  worse 
than  useless  operation.  It  may  have  done  them 
no  permanent  harm,  but  it  certainly  did  them  no 
good.  The  irritability  remained,  always  easily 
aggravated  by  over-use  of  the  eyes,  a  cold,  or 
much  exposure  to  artificial  light.  And  it  has  con 
tinued,  a  very  serious  inconvenience,  through  all 
my  life,  interfering  with  my  literary  labors,  often 
causing  me  to  shun  society  and  evening  entertain- 


54  MY  OWN   STORY 

ments,  and  so,  unfortunately,  tending  to  confirm 
in  me  a  natural  inclination  toward  retirement  and 
reverie. 

XV 

Although  not  the  most  useful  lad  on  a  farm,  I 
liked  certain  kinds  of  farm  work  very  well.  Plough 
ing  was  my  favorite  employment.  I  drove  the 
team  with  the  lines  passed  over  my  back  and 
under  one  arm,  and  at  fifteen  turned  a  furrow,  my 
father  said,  as  well  as  any  man.  In  those  lonely 
but  pleasant  hours  in  the  field,  with  no  compan 
ions  but  the  kind,  dumb,  steady-going  horses,  I 
made  a  great  many  verses,  which  I  retained  in  my 
memory  and  wrote  down  after  the  day's  work  was 
done. 

Tales  and  romances  in  rhyme,  after  the  manner 
of  Byron  and  Scott,  I  planned  and  partly  com 
posed  in  this  way.  It  may  be  in  consequence  of 
the  habit  thus  formed  that  few  of  the  many 
verses  I  have  written  since  have  been  composed 
with  pen  in  hand.  They  have  oftener  come  to 
me  when  I  have  been  walking  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  or  by  the  waterside,  or  lying  awake  in  the 
dark. 

I  was  lying  thus  awake  when  I  composed  the 
first  of  my  pieces  that  got  into  print.  I  was  six 
teen  years  old,  and  was  attending  the  winter  term 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  55 

of  the  district  school.  The  teacher  had  announced 
to  our  class,  in  dismissing  us  at  night,  that  com 
positions  would  be  expected  of  us,  and  I  thought 
it  would  be  a  novelty  to  write  mine  in  rhyme.  I 
did  not  decide  on  a  subject  until  after  I  had  gone 
to  bed ;  then  the  Tomb  of  Napoleon  occurred  to 
me.  Before  I  slept  I  had  shaped  five  nine-line 
stanzas  in  the  metre  of  Childe  Harold,  which  I 
wrote  out  and  revised  the  next  day. 

With  the  exception  of  an  essay  on  the  Disap 
pearance  of  the  North  American  Indians,  full  of 
wailing  winds  and  moaning  waters  and  other  stock 
imagery  befitting  the  subject,  this  was  the  most 
serious  thing  I  had  undertaken  in  the  way  of  a 
school  composition,  and  it  was  received  with  min 
gled  incredulity  and  astonishment.  One  boy  of 
my  age  loudly  declared  that  I  could  never  have 
written  a  line  of  it.  I  said,  "  You  have  a  good 
reason  for  thinking  so."  "What  is  that?"  he 
eagerly  asked.  I  replied,  "  Because  you  could  n't 
have  written  a  line  of  it  yourself  to  save  your 
life  ! " 

It  was  much  talked  about  in  school  and  out ; 
and  as  much  to  my  surprise  as  anybody's,  it  soon 
appeared  in  the  columns  of  our  county  newspaper, 
the  Rochester  Republican.  I  never  knew  whether 
it  was  my  father  or  the  schoolmaster  who  sent  it 
to  the  printers,  but  the  author's  initials  were  given, 


56  MY  OWN   STORY 

"  J.  T.  T.,  of  Ogden,"  with  the  extenuating  phrase, 
"a  lad  of  sixteen  years,"  which  did  much  to  de 
stroy  any  satisfaction  I  might  otherwise  have  felt 
on  first  seeing  my  rhymes  in  print.  It  was  cop 
ied  by  a  Chicago  paper,  accompanied  by  an  edi 
torial  note  comparing  it  with  "  the  early  produc 
tions  of  Prior,  Pope,  and  Chatterton,"  and  calling 
attention  to  it  as  "  an  indication  of  what  might  be 
expected  of  the  author  at  a  more  mature  age." 
This  was  the  first  newspaper  notice  any  lines  of 
mine  ever  received,  and  it  did  no  harm. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  never  quite  dared  to  think 
that  anything  I  might  write  was  worth  publishing. 
If  I  had  secret  dreams  of  becoming  an  author, 
they  were  scarcely  acknowledged  even  to  my 
self.  Shy  and  diffident,  I  did  not  show  my  most 
intimate  friend,  I  did  not  reveal  to  one  of  my 
own  family,  the  quires  of  foolscap  I  was  spoiling 
with  verses  composed  while  following  the  plough. 
After  the  veil  of  my  reserve  had  been  lifted  by 
that  first  publication,  I  began  to  send  to  the 
papers  short  poems  occasionally,  which  appeared 
with  my  initials,  but  without  the  offensive  refer 
ence  to  the  writer's  tender  years. 

I  did  the  usual  farm-boy's  chores  that  winter, 
before  and  after  school.  I  milked  two  or  three 
cows,  foddered  the  cattle  and  sheep,  rode  the 
horses  to  water,  often  chopping  the  ice  out  of  the 


A   BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  57 

trough  in  cold  weather,  and  shoveled  paths  through 
the  drifts.  I  was  naturally  of  a  hopeful  and  cheer 
ful  disposition,  and  I  remember  that  as  a  very 
pleasant  winter. 

But  in  the  spring  I  fell  into  an  unaccountable 
melancholy.  There  had  been  talk  of  my  continu 
ing  my  studies  and  preparing  for  college,  but  it 
seemed  that  nothing  was  to  be  done  about  it  that 
season.  The  school  was  over ;  I  thought  I  was 
accomplishing  nothing ;  I  was  wasting  my  youth ; 
I  was  in  my  seventeenth  year  !  The  idea  of  an 
other  summer  spent  in  farm  work  filled  me  with 
despair. 

I  did  not  conceal  my  despondency;  my  folks 
called  me  sullen,  and  asked  me  what  was  the 
matter.  The  mere  mention  of  my  misery  inten 
sified  it.  I  could  not  have  told  what  ailed  me ; 
I  nursed  imaginary  woes.  I  was  reading  Byron 
again,  and  fancied  myself  akin  to  that  stormy,  dis 
satisfied  spirit. 

"  I  had  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me." 

There  is  no  knowing  how  long  this  morbid  state 
would  have  continued  had  not  a  real  and  over 
whelming  sorrow  come  to  drive  from  my  mind 
all  unreal  wrongs  and  causeless  discontent.  My 
father  was  stricken  with  an  incurable  and  rapid 
disease,  and  died  in  May.  This  first  intimate 


58  MY  OWN   STORY 

acquaintance  with  death  and  the  anguish  of  sep 
aration  seemed  suddenly  to  end  my  boyhood,  while 
the  great  calamity  changed  all  our  lives. 

XVI 

My  mother  was  left  with  the  small  farm  of  fifty 
acres,  her  three  boys  and  one  unmarried  daughter 
still  at  home.  The  will  provided  that  my  elder 
brother,  Windsor,  then  only  nineteen,  but  an  active 
and  enterprising  youth,  fond  of  horses,  cattle,  and 
country  life,  should  keep  the  homestead,  while  I 
should  be  free  to  stay  or  go,  after  I  was  seventeen. 

This  arrangement  seemed  the  best  that  could 
be  made.  My  brother  was  quite  unselfish  about 
it.  Taking  me  aside  a  few  days  after  the  funeral, 
he  said  I  could  have  the  farm  if  I  wished  it,  and 
if  I  thought  I  could  care  as  well  for  it  and  for  our 
mother's  interest  in  it  as  he  could.  He  urged  me 
to  think  it  carefully  over,  assuring  me  that  he 
would  be  satisfied  either  to  remain  or  to  go  in  my 
place.  Now  that  the  choice  was  left  to  me,  leav 
ing  home  became  a  more  serious  matter  than  it 
had  appeared  before,  my  future  and  his  and  our 
mother's  more  or  less  depending  upon  my  decision. 
If  I  remained  I  was  sure  of  a  living,  and  I  could, 
no  doubt,  always  command  some  leisure  for  my 
favorite  pursuits.  On  the  other  hand,  a  feeling  of 
loneliness  and  uncertainty  all  at  once  oppressed  me 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  59 

at  the  prospect  of  going  out  into  the  world  un- 
guided,  inexperienced,  to  make  my  dubious  way. 
I  consulted  our  mother,  who  said  she  would  con 
sent  to  whatever  we  desired  ;  it  would  be  equally 
hard  to  part  with  either  of  us,  and  perhaps  I 
might,  after  a  while,  get  to  manage  the  farm  as 
well  as  he  could,  and  do  as  well  by  our  younger 
brother.  So  it  was  still  left  to  me  ;  and  I  confess 
that  I  was  half  tempted  to  choose  the  immediate 
good  and  the  more  timid  part,  as  I  was  to  be  more 
than  once  tempted  to  choose  between  the  narrow 
certainty  and  the  larger  possibility,  in  the  years  to 
follow. 

After  two  or  three  anxious  days  and  nights, 
courage  and  resolution  came.  I  said,  "  It  was 
father's  plan ;  he  knew  best.  You  are  cut  out  for 
a  farmer;  I  am  not."  I  saw  that  Windsor  was 
relieved.  "But  remember,"  he  joined  with  our 
mother  in  saying,  "  this  will  always  be  your  home 
whenever  you  wish  to  come  back  to  it." 

I  never  went  back  to  it,  except  for  brief  visits, 
after  starting  out  to  make  my  own  way  in  the 
world  ;  and  before  many  years  it  passed  from  his 
and  her  hands,  to  become  the  possession  of  stran 
gers.  My  brother  married  at  twenty-one,  a  step 
of  which  our  mother  approved,  although  she  felt 
that  thenceforward  the  home  for  which  she  had 
toiled  so  long  and  made  so  many  sacrifices  was  no 


60  MY  OWN   STORY 

longer  her  home,  as  it  had  been  from  the  time 
when  her  own  hands  helped  to  carve  it  out  of  the 
wilderness.  It  had  a  new  mistress,  as  was  fitting  ; 
and  where  her  own  children  had  played,  grand 
children  soon  toddled  about  the  door.  My  brother 
was  a  good  farmer,  but  he  had  a  restless  disposi 
tion.  He  grew  tired  of  the  farm  and  wished  to 
sell  it.  She  consented  even  to  this  heartbreaking 
sacrifice.  His  new  home  was  to  be  hers,  and  the 
homes  of  her  married  daughters  would  always  be 
open  to  her,  but  there  was  no  other  spot  in  the 
world  like  that  where  her  very  life  had  so  long 
struck  its  roots  ;  and  when  these  were  uptorn,  she 
felt  that  she  was  from  that  time  forth  a  "sojourner 
in  the  land,"  as  she  used  to  say  with  Christian  re 
signation. 

Windsor  tried  two  or  three  kinds  of  business, 
and  finally  settled  down  as  a  market  gardener  in 
Lockport,  where  we  already  had  a  sister  living. 
Our  mother's  widowhood  lasted  thirty-eight  years, 
—  four  years  longer  than  the  entire  period  of  her 
married  life.  She  died  in  Lockport  in  1882,  in 
her  ninety-first  year.  Her  constant  prayer  had 
long  been  that  she  might  not  outlive  ner  useful 
ness,  and  that  prayer  seemed  to  have  been  granted. 
She  retained  all  her  faculties  to  an  extraordinary 
degree,  and  was  remarkably  active  until  a  fatal  ill 
ness,  occasioned  by  a  fall  which  crippled  her ;  but 


REBECCA    WILLEY   TROWBRIDGE 

The  Author"1*  Mother  at  j6 


A  BACKWOODS   BOYHOOD  61 

even  in  those  last  days  she  delighted  to  be  doing 
bits  of  knitting  or  embroidery  for  some  of  her 
children  or  grandchildren,  her  perfect  faith  in  a 
future  life  continuing  to  the  close. 

Whether  her  later  years  would  have  had  fewer 
trials  if  I,  instead  of  my  brother,  had  remained 
and  kept  the  homestead,  can  never  be  known; 
but  unquestionably  it  was  better  for  me  that  I 
should  go. 


CHAPTER  II 

STARTING  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD 


BEING  seventeen  in  September  (1844),  I  went  to 
live  with  my  married  sister,  Mrs.  Fidelia  Phelps, 
in  Lockport,  for  the  purpose  of  attending  a  classi 
cal  school  there.  My  brother-in-law  was  a  farmer, 
tilling  his  flat  and  uninteresting  acres  of  stiff, 
clayey  soil,  about  half  a  mile  west  of  what  was 
then  the  village,  acres  now  long  since  gathered 
under  the  brooding  wing  of  the  spreading  city. 

The  Lockport  episode  was  quite  to  my  liking ; 
I  had  a  good  home  in  the  country,  I  had  the  vil 
lage  and  the  school.  The  canal,  the  water-ways, 
the  mills,  the  business  life,  I  was  interested  in  all ; 
and,  above  all,  in  the  locks.  I  passed  the  head  of 
these  twice  a  day  on  my  way  to  and  from  school, 
and  spent  many  a  leisure  half  hour  watching  them. 
The  opening  and  shutting  of  the  gates,  the  pass 
ing  of  the  boats  up  and  down,  their  swaying  hulls 
rising  or  falling  and  bumping,  as  the  powerful 
boiling  and  gushing  floods  were  let  in  or  out,  filling 
or  emptying  the  narrow  and  deep-walled  cham- 


STARTING  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD      63 

bers  ;  the  characters  of  the  boatmen  and  gatemen, 
and  their  varied  movements  through  all  the  locking 
process ;  —  all  this  had  for  me  an  ever  fresh  fasci 
nation.  The  Falls  of  Niagara  were  only  eighteen 
miles  away,  and  often  in  the  still  autumn  weather 
I  listened  to  their  continuous,  low,  hardly  distin 
guishable  roar,  a  sound  that  always  breathed  a 
quiet  joy  into  my  soul. 

The  school  was  kept  by  a  fairly  good  teacher, 
and  was  attended  by  about  fifteen  day  pupils,  vil 
lage  boys  and  young  men.  As  a  way-mark  in  my 
boyish  studies  I  may  state  that  I  was  far  enough 
along  in  Latin  to  enter  the  advanced  class  and 
take  up  Cicero's  Orations.  Out  of  school  I  found 
an  educated  French-Canadian,  who  gave  me  pri 
vate  lessons  in  French  pronunciation,  and  encour 
aged  my  visiting  his  family ;  this  being  my  first 
practice  in  speaking  the  language. 

II 

It  was  in  Lockport,  when  I  was  seventeen,  that 
I  first  had  the  pleasure  of  earning  something  with 
my  pen.  A  prize  having  been  offered  by  the 
Niagara  Courier  for  the  best  poetical  New  Year's 
Address  of  the  carrier  to  his  patrons,  for  Janu 
ary  i,  1845,  I  determined  to  compete  for  it.  I 
had  never  sent  any  verses  to  the  Courier,  although 
I  walked  by  the  office  door  every  morning  on  my 


64  MY   OWN   STORY 

way  to  school ;  but  I  had  for  some  time  wished 
to  drop  a  contribution  into  its  letter  box,  and  I 
reasoned  that,  even  if  I  did  not  win  the  prize, 
I  might  write  something  that  would  introduce  me 
favorably  to  the  editor. 

I  soon  composed  and  handed  in  a  patriotic 
octosyllabic  screed  of  some  two  or  three  hundred 
lines,  with  backward  glances  at  Columbus  and  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers,  and  forward  glimpses  into  our 
country's  future ;  here  a  touch  of  the  pathetic  in 
alluding  to  the  vanishing  red  men,  and  there  a  bit 
of  the  picturesque  in  describing  Niagara  Falls  and 
the  primeval  forests.  In  a  few  days  I  summoned 
courage  to  call  at  the  office  and  introduce  myself, 
this  being  my  first  encounter  with  that  superior 
being,  an  editor.  He  of  the  Courier  seemed  sur 
prised  at  my  boyish  appearance,  found  some  fault 
with  the  politics  —  or  lack  of  politics  —  in  my 
Address,  which,  however,  he  acknowledged  to  be 
the  best  that  had  yet  been  received,  and  promised 
that  I  should  soon  hear  from  him  if  the  prize  was 
awarded  to  me. 

Not  hearing  from  him,  I  had  quite  given  it  up, 
when  on  New  Year's  morning  I  saw  the  carrier 
leaving  a  handsome  printed  sheet  at  the  village 
doorways.  In  a  tremor  of  doubt  and  expectation 
I  ran  up  some  steps  on  which  it  lay  half  open, 
and  discovered,  to  my  immense  surprise  and  satis- 


STARTING  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD      65 

faction,  that  it  was  my  Address !  I  shall  never 
forget  how  well  it  looked  lying  there,  with  a  rising 
sun  for  a  heading,  over  the  large  numerals,  1845  ! 

I  lost  no  time  in  procuring  a  copy,  and  oh,  how 
well  it  read  !  I  had  begun  to  think  my  verses 
poor  stuff,  but  the  sight  of  them  in  print,  with  the 
editorial  approval  upon  them,  —  tossed  on  door 
steps  and  under  porches,  with  the  morning  paper, 
for  all  the  town  to  read,  —  quite  altered  my  opin 
ion  of  their  quality. 

Still  not  hearing  from  the  prize,  I  let  a  few  days 
pass,  and  then  once  more,  with  blushing  cheeks 
and  palpitating  heart,  climbed  the  Courier's  office 
stairs.  I  may  as  well  confess  here  that  I  was 
a  blushing  youth,  with  a  good  deal  more  courage 
for  encountering  actual  danger  than  for  meeting 
people  whom  my  imagination  made  formidable. 
A  monarch  on  his  throne  could  hardly  have  been 
more  formidable  to  me  at  that  time  than  the  edi 
tor  of  the  Niagara  Courier. 

He  turned  from  his  desk,  where  he  was  busy 
with  his  morning's  mail,  gave  me  a  glance  of  re 
cognition,  and  kept  on  opening  his  letters.  I 
supposed  he  would  save  me  the  embarrassment 
of  explaining  my  business,  but  he  did  n't. 

"As  I  have  not  received  the  book,"  I  said,  "  I 
have  come  in  to  inquire  about  it." 
The  "book"  was   the  prize, — a  handsomely 


66  MY  OWN   STORY 

bound  copy  of  Griswold's  Poets  of  America,  a 
work  I  was  exceedingly  desirous  of  possessing. 
To  my  chagrin  I  was  informed  that  it  had  not  yet 
been  purchased,  but  that  if  I  would  call  again  in 
a  couple  of  days  it  would  be  ready  for  me.  I  re 
turned  at  the  appointed  time  and  was  again  put  off. 

"Come  in  to-morrow,"  the  editor  said,  "and  I 
will  have  it  for  you." 

So  once  more  I  mounted  his  stairs.  Still  no 
book.  Thereupon  I  grew  indignant.  For  the 
moment  I  felt  myself  morally  superior  to  the  great 
man  who  was  trifling  with  me  ;  and  I  told  him 
that  I  should  not  trouble  him  again.  As  I  was 
going  out  of  the  office  he  called  me  back,  and  tak 
ing  out  his  pocket-book,  offered  me  in  settlement 
of  my  claim  a  dollar  and  a  half.  As  the  edition 
specified  would  have  cost  twice  as  much,  I  felt 
that  I  had  been  circumvented ;  but  I  had  deter 
mined  never  again  to  subject  myself  to  the  hu 
miliation  of  seeming  to  beg  for  what  rightfully 
belonged  to  me,  and  in  a  moment  of  indecision 
I  was  weak  enough  to  take  the  money.  I  was 
straightway  angry  with  myself  for  having  con 
sented  to  the  compromise,  and  went  away  think 
ing  of  the  dignified  and  cutting  things  I  ought 
to  have  said,  after  the  opportunity  had  passed  for 
saying  them. 

Thus  the  triumph  of  receiving  my  first  com- 


STARTING   OUT   IN  THE  WORLD      67 

pensation  for  literary  effort,  like  that  of  my  first 
appearance  in  print,  had  its  dash  of  unpleasant 
ness  ;  a  wholesome  lesson,  no  doubt,  to  my  youth 
and  inexperience.  I  was  early  learning  that  there 
is  little  unalloyed  satisfaction  in  this  sphere  of 
existence,  whatever  there  may  be  in  any  other. 
There  is  ever  a  flaw  in  our  good  fortune ;  just  as, 
in  our  worst  fortune,  there  is  nearly  always  some 
thing  that  may  be  changed  by  time  and  patience 
into  a  blessing. 

Even  what  remained  to  me  of  my  self-com 
placency  on  this  occasion  was  extinguished  a 
little  later,  when  I  reexamined  my  New  Year's 
Address  with  a  sickening  doubt,  an  appalling  ap 
prehension,  that  it  might  be  —  that  it  must  be  — 
that  it  was  —  like  my  Tomb  of  Napoleon  —  mere 

bosh. 

Ill 

During  a  school  vacation  I  took  a  run  over  to 
Pembroke,  in  Genesee  County,  to  attend  for  one 
week  a  class  in  reading  and  elocution.  A  run  it 
literally  was.  Pembroke  village  was  twenty-five 
miles  from  my  Lockport  home,  there  was  no 
public  conveyance  thither,  and  I  made  the  jour 
ney  on  foot,  starting  off  one  morning  in  high 
health  and  spirits,  and  getting  through  by  sun 
down  ;  —  a  brisk  and  exhilarating  trip. 

The  teacher  of  the  class,  a  retired  clergyman, 


68  MY  OWN   STORY 

was  a  good  reader  himself,  simple  and  impressive  ; 
but  as  he  drilled  us  in  imitative  exercises  chiefly, 
the  week's  tuition  amounted  to  but  little,  with  at 
least  one  pupil.  Yet  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say 
just  that.  For,  although  the  first  principle  of 
elocution,  —  namely,  that  freshness  of  percep 
tion  and  feeling  must  precede  and  accompany 
all  true  expression,  in  order  to  assimilate  the  tone 
of  reading  to  the  tone  of  speaking,  —  although 
this  foundation  principle  of  naturalness  and  power 
was  neglected,  or  insufficiently  insisted  on,  some 
of  his  teachings,  in  the  externals  of  the  art,  es 
pecially  in  clear  and  correct  enunciation,  were 
excellent.  I  remember  particularly  an  exercise  in 
the  sounds  st  and  sts,  which  impressed  me  as 
so  admirably  adapted  to  overcome  the  common, 
slovenly  habit  of  slurring  or  dropping  entirely  the 
t  in  such  combinations,  that  I  give  it  here.  These 
lines  we  were  required  to  pronounce  trippingly  on 
the  tongue :  — 

"  Amidst  the  mists, 

With  stoutest  boasts, 
He  thrusts  his  fists 

Against  the  posts, 
And  still  insists 

He  sees  the  ghosts." 

The  school  had  been  recommended  to  me  by  a 
prominent  Pembroke  citizen,  who  also  invited  me 
to  his  house  for  the  week  of  my  stay.  This  friend 


STARTING  OUT  IN   THE  WORLD      69 

was  Amaziah  Jenkins,  a  relative  of  my  Lockport 
relatives,  a  man  of  original  ideas,  an  experienced 
educator,  and  an  ardent  abolitionist.  He  was 
moreover  the  first  man  I  ever  knew  who  had  pub 
lished  a  book ;  a  live  author.  This  to  my  mind 
was  a  very  great  distinction,  although  the  book  in 
this  instance  was  only  an  English  Grammar.  Fa 
miliar  daily  intercourse  with  him  was  not  merely 
encouraging  to  my  self-confidence ;  it  was  instruct 
ive  and  mentally  stimulating.  He  was  ready  to  talk 
on  all  sorts  of  subjects  that  interested  me,  and 
on  one  that  interested  me  but  little ;  for  although 
I  had  a  natural  abhorrence  of  slavery,  I  had  heard 
it  preached  against  so  much  in  our  Ogden  pulpit 
that  I  had  grown  indifferent  to  discussions  of  it. 
He  liked  to  puzzle  me  with  difficult  grammatical 
questions,  of  which  I  recall  a  sample  or  two  — 
how  to  construe  "what"  in  the  phrase,  "  He  has 
more  money  than  he  knows  what  to  do  with,"  and 
" minutes "  in  "He  was  given  five  minutes  for  re 
flection,"  —  which  latter  construction  has  occa 
sioned  the  shedding  of  much  erudite  ink,  in  recent 
years. 

He  had  in  his  chambers  some  barrels  of  books, 
mostly  educational ;  among  which  I  found  a  trea 
sure  that  I  had  the  felicity  (for  it  was  nothing  less) 
of  carrying  away  with  me  at  the  end  of  my  visit : 
all  of  Virgil  in  one  volume,  the  original  accompa- 


70  MY  OWN   STORY 

nied  by  a  transposed  text  with  an  interlinear  trans 
lation,  —  a  work  designed  for  teachers  ;  but  as  I 
was  to  so  great  an  extent  my  own  teacher,  I  felt 
that  I  was  entitled  to  its  help.  I  found  it  an  in 
valuable  assistant,  saving  me  an  immense  amount 
of  time  and  labor  in  looking  up  definitions  and 
coaching  me  over  difficulties  of  construction 
which,  without  it,  would  have  left  me  little 
strength  or  leisure  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  im 
mortal  hexameters.  This  was  in  fact  the  most 
precious  acquisition  I  had  to  remember  the  Pem 
broke  incident  by. 

At  the  close  of  the  Lockport  school,  my  Pem 
broke  friend  urged  me  to  try  canvassing  for  an 
anti-slavery  paper  with  which  he  had  some  con 
nection.  To  this  I  reluctantly  consented,  not  in 
order  to  help  the  cause  he  had  at  heart,  but  to 
earn  money  towards  preparing  myself  for  college. 
By  the  provisions  of  the  will  I  had  received  fifty 
dollars  from  the  old  homestead  on  my  seven 
teenth  birthday,  and  I  was  to  have  as  much  more 
the  following  September;  but  more  than  all  I 
could  hope  to  save  from  this  would  be  necessary, 
if  I  was  to  continue  my  studies  in  an  academy. 
So  I  agreed  to  the  canvassing  project. 

But  I  never  really  undertook  it.  So  invincible 
was  my  repugnance  to  asking  of  anybody  what 
might  seem  a  favor  to  myself  that  I  drew  back 


STARTING   OUT   IN   THE  WORLD       71 

from  the  first  door  I  started  to  enter,  and  threw 
up  my  commission  without  having  solicited  a  sin 
gle  subscription.  As  this  was  my  first  step  in 
the  direction  of  anything  that  looked  like  business, 
I  was  deeply  chagrined  at  so  inauspicious  a  com 
mencement.  In  our  boyhood,  it  was  always  my 
older  brother  who  was  the  more  eager  to  begin 
new  enterprises,  while  I  insisted  more  on  the 
obstacles  in  the  way  ;  but  having  entered  into  a 
scheme  with  him,  I  was  the  one  to  stick  to  it  in 
the  face  of  discouragements  and  to  argue  for  its 
completion.  But  now  I  seemed  to  detect  in  my 
self  an  infirmity  of  purpose  that  might  prove  a 
pitfall  in  the  way  of  any  success  in  life. 

Beside  the  necessity  of  earning  something,  I  had 
another  incentive  to  start  out  as  a  canvasser,  — 
the  desire  to  see  new  places.  I  gave  up  the  can 
vassing,  but  not  the  idea  of  travel.  I  had  as  yet 
seen  but  little  of  the  world,  but  that  little  com 
prised  objects  of  interest  and  wonder  that  nour 
ished  my  imagination,  —  the  great  woods  in  the 
shadow  of  whose  mysteries  and  within  the  sound 
of  whose  roar  my  childhood  was  passed;  the 
Genesee,  and  the  falls  at  Rochester  (falls  indeed 
then,  and  strikingly  picturesque,  before  the  mill 
sluices  drank  them  dry)  ;  Ontario,  to  my  young 
fancy  a  boundless  blue  sea,  as  I  stood  upon  the 
wave-washed  shore  ;  then  Niagara  with  its  mighty 


72  MY  OWN   STORY 

cataract  and  wild  cliffs  and  rapids ;  even  the  canal 
and  the  Lockport  locks !  And  now  came  an  op 
portunity  for  seeing  something  of  what  was  then 
the  far  West. 

IV 

My  oldest  sister  and  her  husband,  Daniel 
Greene  (the  Vermont  schoolmaster),  had  been 
eleven  years  settled  in  their  Illinois  home,  when  in 
the  summer  of  1845  I  determined  to  see  the  land 
she  lauded  so  in  her  letters,  —  the  land  of  the 
grouse  and  the  deer,  of  prairie  flowers  and  prairie 
fires,  of  grove-bordered  streams  and  boundless 
horizons.  Their  westward  journey  had  been  made 
across  Canada,  the  most  practicable  land  route 
from  Buffalo  to  Detroit  in  1834.  Our  father  and 
mother  had  both  successively  visited  them,  he 
partly  by  water  and  partly  by  stage-coach  across 
Michigan  (the  roughest  of  stage  routes),  and  she 
by  schooner  around  the  lakes,  a  voyage  of  nearly 
two  weeks  from  Buffalo  to  Chicago.  A  line  of 
steamboats  had  since  been  established  between 
those  two  cities,  and  it  was  by  steamboat  that  we 
(my  unmarried  sister  accompanied  me)  made  the 
trip  by  the  lakes. 

I  have  forgotten  how  many  days  it  took,  but  to 
my  mind  the  voyage  was  not  half  long  enough, 
and  when  our  boat  went  hard  aground  in  the 


STARTING  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD      73 

St.  Clair  River,  I  remember  experiencing  some 
regret  that  with  the  help  of  a  tug  and  stretched 
hawsers  it  was  got  off  in  the  course  of  an  after 
noon.  I  have  made  I  know  not  how  many  west 
ern  journeys  since,  but  never  another  that  I  en 
joyed  with  so  much  zest,  or  that  I  so  vividly  re 
member.  To  this  day  I  can  see  the  large,  tranquil 
fishes  at  the  bottom  of  the  deep,  still,  wonderfully 
clear  water  of  the  Straits  of  Mackinaw,  where  we 
lay  two  or  three  hours,  and  where  I  should  have 
been  delighted  to  remain  as  many  days. 

Mr.  Greene  met  us  in  Chicago,  then  a  shabby 
city  of  eleven  thousand  inhabitants,  plank  side 
walks,  and  unpaved  streets,  which  became  sloughs 
of  mud  in  foul  weather,  and  in  which  I  was  after 
wards  to  see  many  a  farm  wagon  stalled,  with 
wheels  sinking  to  the  hubs  in  the  mire.  It  had 
no  attractions  for  me  except  the  lake  shore, 
which  had  not  yet  been  ruled  off  by  railroad 
tracks ;  and  after  a  day  and  a  night  at  a  hotel,  I 
was  glad  to  drive  out  across  the  flat,  adjacent 
prairie  and  over  the  fine  upland  country  beyond, 
to  Nine  Oaks  farm,  on  the  East  Branch  of  the  Du 
Page.  What  a  welcome  we  received  there,  how 
our  sister  ran  out  to  meet  us  as  the  wagon  turned 
up  to  the  gate,  and  hugged  us  and  cried  over  us 
as  she  took  us  into  the  house,  —  these  are  memo 
ries  of  the  time,  which  cannot  be  dwelt  on  here. 


74  MY  OWN   STORY 

I  found  within  sight  of  the  house,  between  the 
skirting  grove  on  one  side  and  the  river  winding 
through  the  broad  bottom-land  on  the  other,  the 
charms  her  facile  pen  had  painted  for  my  allure 
ment  ;  and  within  an  hour  or  two  after  our  arrival, 
I  was  tramping,  gun  in  hand,  through  my  brother- 
in-law's  buckwheat,  scaring  up  and  shooting  — 
or,  to  be  more  exact,  shooting  at  —  prairie  chick 
ens  on  the  wing.  That  very  evening  I  saw  my 
first  deer,  a  lovely  doe,  in  graceful  leaps  undulat 
ing  over  the  high  grass  of  the  bottom-land,  going 
to  drink  at  the  river. 

V 

I  did  some  work  on  the  farm,  the  rest  of  that 
summer  and  in  the  autumn  following,  and  some 
desultory  studying  and  reading  ;  but  spent '  more 
time  ranging  the  woodlands  and  high  prairies,  on 
horseback  or  afoot,  sometimes  hunting  strayed 
cattle  by  the  sound  of  the  bells,  always  a  welcome 
music,  when  heard  afar  off  over  the  fenceless  hills, 
or  in  bushy  underwoods.  But  oftener  I  hunted 
more  interesting  game,  —  chiefly  prairie  hens,  and 
latterly  deer,  shooting  of  these,  as  I  recall  with  com 
punction,  two ;  one  a  fine  buck,  the  sad  story  of 
which  would  be  long  to  tell,  the  other  a  slender 
doe,  that  turned  up  at  me  such  piteous,  almost 
human  eyes,  as  she  lay  bleeding  at  my  feet,  that 


STARTING  OUT  IN  THE   WORLD      75 

I  wished  never  to  shoot  another  deer,  and  never 
did. 

There  was  one  creature,  common  then  and 
there,  which  I  let  pass  no  opportunity  for  destroy 
ing.  This  was  the  prairie  rattlesnake.  Rather 
than  suffer  one  to  live,  I  would  walk  a  long  dis 
tance  for  a  club  with  which  to  finish  it.  I  fully 
sympathized  with  the  surveyor  who,  strolling  away 
from  his  camp  one  evening,  came  upon  a  rattler 
on  the  open  prairie.  He  had  only  his  cigar  in 
his  hand,  and  there  was  neither  stick  nor  stone 
within  a  mile.  The  coiled  reptile  presented  so  fair 
a  mark  that  he  felt  sure  he  could  kill  it  with  his 
boot,  which  he  pulled  off  for  the  purpose.  The  snake 
struck  as  he  did,  and  in  his  nervousness  he  let 
the  boot  fall.  It  was  then  absolutely  necessary 
to  kill  the  snake  in  order  to  get  back  his  boot ;  so 
he  pulled  off  his  other  boot,  and  lost  that  in  the 
same  way.  The  snake  held  the  fort ;  and  there 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  walk  back  to  his 
camp,  a  good  mile,  in  his  stockings. 

Cattle,  that  would  never  pay  the  slightest  at 
tention  to  any  other  snake,  would  start  violently 
aside  at  sight  or  sound  of  a  rattler.  This  dread 
of  the  creature  must  have  been  instinctive,  for  it 
could  hardly  have  been  the  result  of  individual  or 
inherited  experience ;  it  was  not  probable  that  the 
average  ox,  or  any  one  of  its  progenitors,  had  ever 


76  MY  OWN   STORY 

received  a  venomous  bite.  My  brother-in-law  had 
a  dog  that  exhibited  the  same  instinctive  repug 
nance,  but  in  a  different  way.  If  he  came  upon  a 
rattler  stretched  out  on  the  ground,  he  would 
make  a  dart  at  its  neck,  and  shake  it  to  pieces  be 
fore  the  deadly,  fanged  head  had  time  to  turn.  If 
it  had  got  into  a  coil,  his  attack  was  more  circum 
spect  ;  he  would  begin  to  walk  around  it  at  a  safe 
distance,  barking  excitedly,  his  head  toward  the 
poised  head  of  the  reptile,  causing  it  to  follow  his 
movements,  until  the  coil  was  sufficiently  un 
wound,  when  he  would  make  a  quick  dart,  and 
—  look  out  for  the  flying  fragments!  How  he 
ever  learned  this  trick  nobody  knew.  The  de 
velopment  of  the  venom  in  the  reptile  and  of  the 
instinct  in  the  animal  would  be,  if  one  had  the 
needful  data,  an  extremely  interesting  study  in 
evolution. 

The  bite  of  the  prairie  rattlesnake  is  dangerous, 
but  not  necessarily  fatal.  I  knew  of  one  painful 
case.  A  boy  killed  a  snake,  as  he  supposed,  and 
left  it  lying  under  a  stone.  The  act  was  witnessed 
by  a  younger  brother  about  three  years  old,  who 
followed  him  home,  and  interrupted  his  story  to 
say,  "  Snake  bite  me !  "  The  older  said,  "  That 's 
just  his  fancy;  I  killed  it,  and  he  wasn't  any 
where  near  it."  The  child  insisted,  "Snake  bite 
me !  "  and,  when  it  was  late  to  apply  a  remedy,  it 


STARTING  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD       77 

was  noticed  that  his  hand  was  swelling.  Hand 
and  arm  swelled  frightfully ;  the  face  and  entire 
body  turned  dark  purple ;  he  fell  into  a  stupor 
that  lasted  several  days,  and  barely  escaped  death. 
It  seemed  that  he  had  gone  back  to  the  snake 
after  the  older  boy  had  left  it,  that  he  had  moved 
the  stone,  and  received  a  bite. 

The  usual  remedy  was  whiskey,  and  a  popular 
one.  So  popular  was  it  in  fact,  among  a  certain 
class,  that  one  could  readily  believe  what  was  said 
of  impecunious  topers,  —  that  they  would  some 
times  get  themselves  bitten  purposely,  and  then 
make  appeal  to  the  charitable-minded  for  the  quart 
of  cure.  It  took  a  deal  of  one  kind  of  poison  to 
counteract,  in  the  system,  a  very  minute  quantity 
of  the  other. 

VI 

There  was  a  pleasant  society  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  in  which  I  found  enjoyment,  notably  when 
snow  came,  and  the  weather  was  fine  for  sleigh 
ing  parties,  —  sleigh  bottoms  packed  with  hay  and 
buffalo  robes,  and  merry  young  people  full  of  the 
inspiration  of  that  new,  free,  western  life.  One 
Saturday  afternoon  two  sleigh  loads  of  us  drove 
to  Joliet,  where  in  the  cheer  of  a  good  hotel  we 
took  no  note  of  time  or  of  a  change  in  the  weather, 
and  so  became  lost  in  a  thick  snowstorm,  at  night, 


78  MY  OWN   STORY 

on  the  open  prairies,  on  our  return  drive  of  some 
fifteen  miles.  A  furious  blizzard  was  setting  in  ; 
and,  though  we  had  great  confidence  in  the  driver 
of  our  foremost  sleigh,  a  sagacious  and  self-reli 
ant  young  man,  when  he  acknowledged  to  me 
that  he  had  no  idea  where  we  were,  I  was  im 
pressed  with  the  alarming  prospect  of  our  passing 
the  night  in  our  open  sleighs,  or  under  them,  if  as 
a  last  resort  we  turned  them  over,  with  the  bot 
toms  canted  against  the  driving  storm. 

I  suggested  that  if  he  could  n't  find  the  track, 
perhaps  the  horses  might.  He  agreed,  slacked 
the  reins,  and  let  the  pair  travel  as  they  would. 
In  the  blinding  snow  it  was  impossible  to  discover 
any  change  in  their  course  ;  and,  if  their  instinct 
was  trustworthy,  what  soon  followed  was  disheart 
ening.  Their  steady  trot  fell  off  to  a  walk,  then 
suddenly  they  stopped.  There  was  some  obstacle 
ahead  ;  it  proved  to  be  a  fence.  A  solitary  settler 
had  inclosed  his  little  home-lot  of  an  acre  or  two, 
and,  with  no  credit  to  the  team,  by  sheer  good 
luck  we  had  struck  it,  when  there  were  a  score 
of  chances  to  one  of  our  passing  it,  and  driving 
on  over  the  storm-swept,  limitless  prairies.  His 
hut  was  near  by,  —  found  after  a  little  tramping 
and  shouting;  we  roused  him  up,  and  he  set  us 
on  our  way. 

That  winter  I  was  beginning,  for  the  first  time, 


STARTING  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD      79 

to  earn  an  independent  livelihood.  I  taught  the 
district  school  in  my  brother-in-law's  neighbor 
hood,  —  three  and  a  half  or  four  months,  at  twelve 
dollars  a  month  and  my  board.  The  "board" 
meant  "  boarding  around  "  in  the  homes  of  my 
pupils  ;  which  again  meant  living  a  week  or  so  at 
a  time  in  the  pleasantest  of  them,  neglecting  the 
others,  and  spending  my  Saturdays  and  Sundays 
and  much  other  surplus  time  with  my  friends. 
Some  of  my  best  pupils  were  German  children, 
whose  parents  had  lately  settled  in  that  region, 
and  who  could  speak  hardly  a  word  of  English 
on  entering  the  school.  The  rapid  progress  the 
brightest  of  these  made  in  learning  to  read  and 
write  and  speak  a  new  language  was  something 
marvelous.  Both  the  teaching  and  the  boarding 
around  among  the  better  class  of  families  were  a 
novel  and  profitable  experience  ;  I  had  an  interest 
ing  little  school,  and  I  was  sorry  when  it  came  to 
a  close.  One  reason  for  my  regret  was,  it  must 
be  acknowledged,  a  pecuniary  one.  "  Twelve 
dollars  a  month  and  board  "  seems  little  indeed, 
but  I  had  never  earned  wages  before,  and  when 
should  I  have  another  opportunity  of  earning  as 
much,  and  as  easily  ? 

In  the  spring  my  brother-in-law,  to  give  me 
some  encouragement  in  the  way  of  business,  I 
suppose,  —  certainly  with  no  idea  of  advantage  to 


8o  MY  OWN   STORY 

himself,  —  made  me  an  astonishing  proposition. 
I  had  expected  to  return  to  the  East  in  April,  but 
both  he  and  my  sister  urged  me  to  remain  with 
them  another  summer.  Farm  wages  would  have 
been  hardly  the  thing  for  him  to  offer  or  for  me 
to  receive  ;  so  he  proposed  that  I  should  take 
some  of  his  land  to  work  "  on  shares."  He  would 
furnish  seed,  team,  farming  tools,  everything  but 
the  work,  which  I  was  to  do ;  my  compensation  to 
be,  as  I  remember,  one  third  of  the  crop.  The 
crop  was  to  be  spring  wheat ;  his  corn  and  other 
crops  he  would  raise,  with  the  help  of  his  hired 
man.  Considering  my  age  (eighteen)  and  a  sad 
habit  I  had  contracted  of  lingering  too  long  over 
books,  it  was  a  surprising  offer.  The  work  I 
would  have  to  do  was  what  I  liked  best  on  a 
farm,  —  ploughing  and  harrowing,  and  harrowing 
again  after  the  seed  was  sown  ;  I  liked  the  coun 
try  and  the  neighborhood,  and  above  all  my  sister 
and  her  family  (Mr.  Greene  was  one  of  the  most 
upright  and  liberal  men  I  knew,  and  one  of  the 
wittiest)  ;  I  should  be  in  one  sense  my  own  mas 
ter  and  have  some  leisure  for  my  studies.  I  con 
sidered  all  these  advantages,  and  consented,  no 
doubt  wisely,  to  his  plan. 

After  the  crop  was  "  in  "  I  remained,  waiting 
for  it  to  mature,  doing  meanwhile  some  work  for 
my  brother-in-law,  and  reading  (as  I  remember) 


STARTING   OUT   IN  THE  WORLD      81 

Burns's  poems,  which  I  had  found  at  the  home  of 
a  friend,  the  Bucolics  of  Virgil,  in  the  volume  I  had 
brought  from  Pembroke,  and  some  German,  hav 
ing  that  year  begun  the  study  of  that  language. 
I  recall  but  little  regarding  the  wheat  crop,  ex 
cept  that  it  grew  finely  in  that  rich  prairie  soil, 
and  gave  fair  promise  of  paying  me  well  for  my  la 
bor,  until  at  a  critical  time,  j  ust  as  the  milky  berry 
was  filling,  there  came  a  week  of  hot  and  humid 
weather ;  the  "  rust  "  struck  the  rank  stalks,  the 
immature  grains  shriveled,  and  my  hopes  with 
them ;  and  my  beautiful  fields,  although  they 
turned  duly  from  green  to  golden,  produced  but  a 
poor  and  unprofitable  crop.  That  was  the  last  of 
my  farming. 

I  did  not  stay  for  the  threshing,  but  returned 
to  the  East  in  August,  visited  my  relatives  in 
Ogden  and  Lockport,  and  in  the  autumn  (being 
then  nineteen)  took  a  district  school  in  Lockport, 
two  or  three  miles  north  of  the  village. 

VII 

In  my  Lockport  school  I  had  about  thirty  pu 
pils,  of  ages  varying  from  seven  or  eight  years  to 
eighteen  or  twenty,  two  or  three  of  the  older  boys 
being  larger  and  taller  than  myself.  I  was  warned 
that  previous  teachers  —  "masters"  they  were 
called  —  had  had  trouble  with  big  boys  in  that  dis- 


82  MY  OWN   STORY 

trict,  and  that  physical  energy  and  rigid  discipline 
would  be  required  to  get  through  the  winter  term 
satisfactorily ;  but  I  had  faith  that  I  could  succeed 
as  I  had  succeeded  with  my  smaller  Illinois  school. 

From  the  start  I  found  the  older  pupils,  girls 
and  boys  alike,  amenable  to  reason,  and  if  I  some 
times  had  to  inflict  slight  punishments  on  the 
younger  ones,  it  was  because  their  natural  restless 
ness  and  love  of  mischief  were  too  strong  in  them 
for  the  undeveloped  moral  sense,  and  because  no 
unassisted  teacher  in  a  school  of  that  sort,  miscel 
laneous  and  ungraded,  has  time  for  persuasive 
measures  only,  in  each  particular  case  requiring 
discipline.  I  "  boarded  around  "  again,  and  that 
custom  helped  me  to  establish  friendly  relations 
with  parents  and  pupils. 

I  made  the  morning  fires  that  winter,  not  merely 
because  building  fires  was  considered  one  of  the 
master's  duties,  but  for  the  advantages  attending 
it.  There  was  something  indescribably  exhilarat 
ing  in  leaving  my  boarding-place  as  soon  as  I  had 
eaten  my  breakfast,  facing  the  frosty  air,  and 
tramping  through  the  snow  to  the  schoolhouse  at 
the  Corners ;  starting  a  blaze  in  the  cold,  coffin- 
shaped  stove,  stuffing  it  full  of  wood,  then  sitting 
down  before  it  in  my  cap  and  overcoat,  with  my 
feet  on  the  hearth,  and  having  an  hour  or  more  all  to 
myself  over  my  Virgil  or  Schiller  or  La  Fontaine. 


STARTING   OUT   IN  THE  WORLD      83 

Not  a  picture  or  frame  of  any  sort  relieved  the 
dingy  gray  of  the  blank,  plastered  walls.  The 
floor  in  places  most  trodden  was  worn  to  the  sem 
blance  of  shallow  valleys,  with  ranges  of  miniature 
hills  where  the  shiny  heads  of  board-nails  pro 
tected  it  from  abrasion.  The  benches  were  of 
the  plainest,  shiny-smooth  in  the  part  most  ex 
posed  to  friction,  and  the  desk  surfaces  were 
diversified  with  intaglios  not  particularly  ornamen 
tal,  boats,  house-gables,  tomahawks  (the  last  was  a 
favorite  device),  cut,  or  rather  dug  out,  by  juven 
ile  jack-knives.  Yet  though  my  surroundings 
were  so  unattractive,  and  so  absolutely  comfort 
less  but  for  the  blaze  my  own  hands  kindled,  I 
was  oblivious  of  all  that  bleakness  and  bareness 
and  ugliness ;  I  was  in  the  domain  of  mind,  with 
high  thoughts  and  purposes  for  my  companions. 
I  look  back  now  to  that  far-off  time  with  envy  of 
my  own  fine  spirits  and  joyous  youth  ;  and  I  lack 
words  to  tell  how  sweet  to  me  was  the  seclusion  of 
those  morning  hours  in  the  cheerless  school-room 
before  the  pupils  came  stamping  in. 

The  boarding-place  I  best  remember  was  the 
house  of  a  man  named  Gibson,  who  had  three 
children  in  my  school,  —  not  half  so  many  as  I 
could  have  wished,  since  the  more  pupils  there 
were  in  a  family,  the  longer  the  master  was  en 
titled  to  claim  its  hospitalities.  Gibson  was  an 


84  MY   OWN   STORY 

educated  Scotchman  who  had  come  to  this  coun 
try  as  a  civil  engineer,  and  had  finally  settled  down 
as  a  Niagara  County  farmer.  He  would  spend  a 
whole  evening  talking  to  me  of  Scott  and  Burns, 
and  of  one  younger  Scotch  writer  of  whom  he 
predicted  great  things.  Burns  he  knew  almost 
by  heart ;  and  he  recited  Tarn  O'Shanter  with 
amazing  unction  and  animation.  The  younger 
author,  who  had  been  a  friend  of  his  early  man 
hood,  a  comrade  and  classmate,  still  wrote  to  him 
from  Scotland  quaintly  entertaining  letters  and  sent 
him  all  his  books  successively  as  they  appeared. 
So  desirous  was  he  of  interesting  me  in  them  that 
he  offered  to  lend  me  any  or  all  of  them,  and 
would,  I  have  no  doubt,  if  I  had  become  his  pro 
phet's  disciple,  have  presented  me  a  volume,  with 
the  flyleaf  inscription  which  I  should  be  rather 
glad  now  to  have  — "  From  his  friend,  Thomas 
Carlyle."  Although  I  was  to  come  later  under 
their  powerful  influence,  I  thought  then  I  had  no 
time  for  "Hero  Worship,"  "Sartor  Resartus,"  or 
the  "  French  Revolution."  Youth  passes  many 
such  doors  that  stand  ready  to  open  for  it  into 
treasure-houses  of  golden  opportunity. 

VIII 

The  range  of  studies  required  to  be  taught  in  the 
ungraded  district  school  of  those  days  was  some- 


STARTING  OUT   IN  THE  WORLD      85 

thing  preposterous,  often  extending  all  the  way 
from  the  first  steps  in  reading,  writing,  and  num 
bers,  to  higher  arithmetic  and  grammar,  including 
perhaps  algebra,  natural  philosophy,  and  chemistry, 
the  two  last  without  any  laboratory  or  apparatus. 
Mine  being  a  winter  term,  I  had  no  abecedarians, 
for  which  mercy  I  was  grateful.  Quill  pens  were 
in  use,  and  during  the  half  hour  given  to  the  writ 
ing  lesson  the  prevailing  silence  was  broken  by 
the  scratching  of  nibs,  and  the  altogether  too 
frequent  appeal,  "  Mend  my  pen,  master  ?  Please 
mend  my  pen  ? "  Skill  in  pen-mending  was  one 
of  the  teacher's  indispensable  accomplishments  ; 
he  was  likewise  required  to  write  the  learners' 
copy.  Mere  drudgery  much  of  this  was,  and  it 
would  have  been  intolerable  to  my  youth  and 
inexperience  and  sensitive  nervous-sanguine  tem 
perament,  but  for  the  double  necessity  of  doing 
my  duty  to  those  under  my  charge  and  of  earning 
my  humble  salary  —  sixteen  dollars  a  month,  that 
season.  Yet  the  pleasure  I  took  in  some  of  my 
work  atoned  for  much  of  the  annoyance  attending 
the  rest.  I  had  classes  in  algebra  and  French, 
which  were  a  positive  satisfaction.  The  French 
was  voluntary  on  my  part,  three  or  four  of  my 
advanced  pupils  having  taken  it  up,  at  my  sug 
gestion,  in  place  of  chemistry. 

I  had  no  serious  trouble  in  governing  the  school, 


86  MY  OWN   STORY 

except  on  one  critical  occasion,  when  an  act  of 
haughty  disobedience  on  the  part  of  one  of  the 
older  boys,  taller  if  not  heavier  than  I,  resulted  in 
a  rough-and-tumble  contest  for  supremacy  on  the 
school-room  floor,  in  the  presence  of  the  amazed 
and  frightened  pupils.  When  we  finally  went 
down  together,  it  chanced  that  I  was  a-top.  It 
was  even  a  more  decided  moral  than  a  physical 
victory,  for  I  felt  that  the  sympathies  of  the  entire 
school,  even  of  the  boy's  brother  and  sister,  were 
on  my  side.  I  have  described  a  struggle  very 
similar  to  this  in  one  of  my  minor  novels,  "  The 
Little  Master,"  but  between  the  actual  circum 
stance  and  the  fictitious  one  suggested  by  it,  there 
is  this  important  difference,  that  in  my  own  case 
the  rebellious  pupil's  parents,  as  well  as  his  brother 
and  sister,  sided  with  the  teacher.  After  that, 
harmony  reigned  in  my  little  realm,  and  I  was 
made  to  feel  in  many  ways  the  increased  good-will 
of  all  the  older  scholars. 

IX 

The  Lockport  winter  term  was  the  last  of  my 
experience  as  a  school-teacher.  At  its  close  I 
went  to  Brockport,  a  village  on  the  Erie  Canal, 
where  there  was  an  academy,  with  the  intention 
of  entering  it.  I  entered  it  for  one  day ;  or,  more 
strictly  speaking,  for  one  hour.  I  saw  the  prin- 


STARTING   OUT   IN   THE  WORLD      87 

cipal,  whom  I  remember  as  a  stocky  man  with  a 
wooden  leg,  and  talked  with  students  who  had 
been  a  year  or  two  in  attendance.  When  I  learned 
how  long  they  had  been  in  traversing  fields  of 
study  which  I  had  passed,  unassisted,  in  one  half 
the  time  (more  superficially,  without  doubt),  how 
far  in  advance  I  was,  in  Latin,  of  the  class  I  hoped 
to  enter,  and  how  far  behind  in  Greek,  and  how 
little  progress  the  routine  of  the  term  promised 
after  all,  I  was  dismayed  at  what,  to  my  boyish 
conceit,  appeared  a  treadmill  process  of  education. 
The  truth  was,  my  desultory  methods  of  study 
had  rendered  me  impatient  of  what  would  have 
been,  undoubtedly,  a  useful  discipline.  I  had  ideal 
ized  the  academy,  which  I  had  longed  for  and 
looked  forward  to  so  long,  fancying  it  something 
entirely  different  from  the  Lockport  classical 
school ;  and  I  found  it  a  little  more  of  the  same 
sort,  on  a  larger  scale.  With  my  habits  of  solitary 
application,  I  could  do  out  of  it  all  I  could  hope  to 
do  in  it,  and  more  in  directions  in  which  I  wished 
to  go. 

Then  there  was  the  important  economic  consid 
eration.  From  my  farming  and  teaching  I  had 
saved  barely  enough  money  to  take  me  through 
the  term  ;  and  at  its  close  I  should  have  to  go  to 
work  to  earn  more,  either  at  farming  or  teaching. 
To  neither  of  these  occupations  did  I  desire  ever 


88  MY  OWN   STORY 

to  return.  I  went  out  from  the  throng  of  students 
when  the  organization  of  classes  had  barely  begun, 
and  walked  the  streets  of  Brockport  village  in  a 
deeply  anxious  frame  of  mind,  until  I  had  reached 
one  of  those  momentous  decisions  which  often 
mark  a  crisis  in  our  lives.  I  would  give  up  all 
thought  of  working  my  way  through  college,  and 
face  the  world  at  once  in  search  of  fortune,  if 
fortune  there  might  be  for  one  so  ill  prepared  and 
of  so  uncertain  aims. 

I  hastened  to  the  pleasant  village  home  where  I 
had  engaged  board  for  the  term,  and  found,  to  my 
relief,  that  the  room  would  be  in  request  by  other 
applicants  ;  packed  my  trunk,  and  hurried  with  it 
on  board  the  first  packet  boat  for  Spencer's  Basin ; 
returned  to  the  Ogden  homestead  for  a  brief  visit, 
and  to  put  into  shape  some  poems  and  sketches, 
a  few  in  print  but  more  in  manuscript,  which  I 
had  not  yet  been  wise  enough  to  burn  ;  then,  on 
the  tenth  day  of  May,  1847,  not  vet  twenty  years 
of  age,  I  started  for  New  York. 


CHAPTER  III 

FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A   WRITER 


TRAVELING  by  packet  boat  on  the  Erie  Canal, 
from  Rochester,  and  by  steamboat  down  the  Hud 
son  from  Albany,  I  arrived  at  the  pier  in  New 
York  at  daybreak  on  the  morning  of  May  15, 

1847- 

And  what  a  daybreak  it  was  !  The  great  river, 
the  shipping,  the  mast-fringed  wharves,  the  misty 
morning  light,  the  silent  streets  of  the  hardly  yet 
awakening  city,  the  vastness  and  strangeness  and 
mystery  of  it  all,  kindled  my  enthusiasm  and  made 
me  glad  I  had  come.  In  all  that  mighty  metro 
polis  I  knew  not  a  single  soul ;  I  brought  no  mes 
sage  to  any  one,  not  a  letter  of  introduction  ;  I 
knew  no  more  what  was  before  me  than  if  I  had 
dropped  upon  Mars  or  the  Moon  ;  but  what  of 
that  ?  Here  was  life,  and  I  was  young  ! 

It  was  characteristic  of  my  impressible  and 
impulsive  nature  that  I  strolled  about  City  Hall 
Park  and  down  Broadway  to  the  Battery,  where  I 
sat  long  on  the  benches,  enjoying  the  novel  scenes, 


9o  MY   OWN    STORY 

the  sails  and  steamboats,  the  dashing  waves,  the 
cool  breeze  from  the  water,  then  crossed  by  ferry 
to  Brooklyn  and  back,  before  I  thought  of  looking 
for  a  boarding-place.  Then  I  found  one  on  the 
shady  side  of  Duane  Street,  quite  near  Broadway, 
and  not  very  far  from  the  steamboat  wharf,  where 
I  had  left  my  trunk.  In  country  fashion  I  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  wondered  why  nobody  came  to 
let  me  in.  I  was  so  green  I  did  not  know  a  door 
bell. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  smiling  little  doctor, 
who,  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say,  continued 
to  smile  (perhaps  he  smiled  all  the  more)  when  he 
learned  that  I  had  come  for  board  and  not  for  a 
prescription.  He  instructed  me  in  the  mysteries 
of  the  bell-pull,  and  a  maid  convoyed  me  upstairs 
to  the  landlady.  It  was  a  boarding-house  "for 
gentlemen  only,"  the  "  gentlemen  "  being  for  the 
most  part  dry-goods  clerks,  and  young  men  — 
elderly  men,  too,  as  I  was  soon  to  discover  —  out 
of  business  and  seeking  employment. 

I  had  a  roommate  at  first,  a  companionable 
fellow,  who  began  at  once  to  enlighten  me  in  the 
agreeable  vices  of  city  life,  offering  to  "  take  me 
everywhere."  He  was  so  well  dressed  and  so 
frankly  friendly,  and  the  allurements  he  described 
were,  from  his  point  of  view,  such  matters  of 
course  for  any  one  privileged  to  enjoy  them,  that 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS  A  WRITER    91 

I  did  not  realize  at  all  that  my  first  city  acquaint 
ance  was  a  dangerous  one.  Indeed,  he  was  not 
dangerous  to  me.  I  listened  to  him  with  curiosity 
and  perfect  toleration,  and  took  one  or  two  walks 
with  him ;  but  soon  withdrew  from  his  society, 
simply  because  our  tastes  were  not  congenial,  and 
I  had  aspirations  to  which  his  atmosphere  was  not 
the  breath  of  life.  I  told  our  landlady  that  I  must 
have  a  room  by  myself,  or  go  elsewhere,  —  that  I 
not  only  wished  to  write  and  study  a  good  deal, 
but  that  the  mere  presence  of  a  roommate  was 
irksome  to  me.  She  gave  me  a  small  room  with 
one  window,  high  up  in  the  house,  —  the  conven 
tional  garret,  in  short,  —  and  I  was  happy. 

What,  after  all,  was  the  motive  that  had  brought 
me  to  New  York  ?  That  I  had  secret  hopes  of 
becoming  an  author  is  certainly  true ;  but  I  had 
not  confided  them  to  my  most  intimate  friend,  I 
scarcely  dared  acknowledge  them  to  myself ;  and 
I  was  not  presumptuous  enough  to  suppose  that 
at  the  age  of  nineteen,  ill  equipped  as  I  was  for 
such  a  career,  I  could  start  in  at  once  and  earn  a 
living  by  my  pen.  I  carried  with  me  my  manu 
scripts  and  books,  and  habits  of  study  and  compo 
sition,  in  which  I  had  satisfaction  for  their  own 
sake,  and  which  I  fondly  believed  would  reward 
me  with  happiness,  if  not  fortune,  in  the  near 
future ;  but  in  the  mean  time  I  flattered  myself 


92  MY   OWN   STORY 

that  I  was  looking  for  some  business  of  a  practical 
nature. 

I  answered  an  advertisement  for  a  young  man 
who  wrote  a  good  hand  and  knew  something  of 
accounts,  and  found  a  crowd  of  applicants  at  the 
place  before  me.  I  visited  an  employment  office, 
which  got  my  dollar  on  the  false  pretense  of  in 
suring  me  a  good  situation  within  a  week,  but 
rendered  me  not  the  slightest  service.  I  had 
cherished,  like  so  many  country  boys,  romantic 
dreams  of  going  to  sea ;  I  frequented  the  wharves, 
and  observed  the  sailors,  and  was  quickly  cured 
of  any  desire  to  ship  before  the  mast,  but  still 
fancied  I  would  like  to  be  a  supercargo,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort ;  even  a  voyage  or  two  as  cabin 
boy  might  have  its  attractions.  I  had  also  heard 
of  such  a  position  as  that  of  navy  captain's  secre 
tary,  which  I  thought  would  be  peculiarly  desir 
able  for  a  youth  of  some  literary  capacity  wishing 
to  see  the  world.  One  day,  perceiving  a  man-of- 
war  in  port,  and  a  fine-looking  officer  on  the 
quarter-deck  walking  to  and  fro  under  an  awning, 
I  ventured  on  board,  and  accosted  him,  with  all 
due  respect,  as  I  thought  then,  and  as  I  still  be 
lieve.  I  have  quite  forgotten  what  I  was  starting 
to  say,  but  I  remember  well  the  curt  command 
that  cut  me  short :  "  Take  off  your  hat  when  you 
address  a  gentleman  !  "  uttered  without  discon- 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A   WRITER    93 

tinuing  his  walk,  or  turning   his  face,  which  he 
carried  high  before  him. 

If  he  had  hurled  a  binnacle  at  me,  or  a  bow- 
anchor,  or  anything  else  naval  and  characteristic, 
I  could  not  have  been  more  astounded.  Seeing 
that  he  wore  his  own  cap  (handsomely  gold-laced, 
as  I  have  him  in  my  mind's  eye  still),  and  we  were 
in  the  open  air  but  for  the  awning,  I  could  not 
possibly  discover  how  I  had  merited  so  brutal  a 
rebuff.  I  stared  at  him  a  moment,  stifling  with 
astonishment  and  humiliation,  and  indignant 
enough  to  hurl  back  at  him  anything  in  his  own 
line,  a  capstan  or  a  forecastle  —  I  was  too  angry 
to  make  a  discriminating  choice.  Fortunately  I 
had  sense  enough  to  reflect  that  he  was  in  his 
own  little  kingdom,  and  that  if  I  was  not  pleased 
with  the  manners  of  the  country  the  sooner  I 
took  myself  out  of  it  the  better.  I  turned  my 
back  on  him  abruptly  and  left  the  ship,  choking 
down  my  wrath,  but  thinking  intently  (too  late,  as 
was  my  habit)  of  the  killingly  sarcastic  retort  I 
might  have  made.  Thus  was  quenched  in  me 
the  last  flickering  inclination  for  a  seafaring  life. 

II 

Meanwhile  I  went  about  the  actual,  unpractical 
business  which,  unconfessedly,  I  had  most  at 
heart.  I  offered  a  volume  of  verses  —  in  a  variety 


94  MY   OWN   STORY 

of  styles,  derived  from  Byron,  Scott,  and  Burns, 
with  here  and  there  a  reminiscence  of  Hudibras  — 
to  two  or  three  publishers,  all  of  whom  but  one 
declined  even  to  look  at  them  (perhaps  looking  at 
the  author's  face  was  sufficient),  telling  me,  kindly 
enough  but  firmly,  that  no  book  of  poems  unless 
written  by  a  man  of  established  reputation  could 
possibly  attract  public  attention.  The  one  who 
did  at  last  consent  to  examine  my  manuscripts 
returned  them  with  even  fewer  words,  no  doubt 
thinking  he  had  already  wasted  too  many  on  a 
hopeless  case. 

"I  must  make  a  reputation  before  I  can  get 
anybody  to  print  my  volume,"  I  said  to  myself ; 
and  I  could  see  but  one  way  of  doing  that.  I 
selected  some  of  the  shorter  pieces  from  my  col 
lection,  and  began  offering  them  to  the  weekly 
papers,  along  with  some  prose  sketches  which  I 
had  brought  from  the  country,  or  completed  after 
my  arrival.  I  did  not  find  editors  anxious  to  fill 
their  columns  with  my  poetry ;  and  though  my 
prose  articles  met  with  more  favor,  I  was  told 
even  by  those  who  expressed  a  willingness  to 
print  them  that  they  did  not  pay  for  "  such 
things." 

I  was  a  shy  youth,  and  it  really  required  heroic 
effort  on  my  part  to  make  these  calls  on  editors 
and  publishers,  and  offer  them  my  crude  literary 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES  AS   A  WRITER    95 

wares,  which  I  was  pretty  sure  to  have  handed 
back  to  me,  perhaps  with  that  cold  silence  so  much 
more  killing  even  than  criticism  to  a  young  writ 
er's  aspirations.  How  often  in  those  days  I  stood 
panting  at  an  editor's  door,  waiting  to  still  my 
heart-beats  and  gain  breath  and  courage  for  the 
interview,  then  perhaps  cravenly  descending  the 
stairs  and  putting  off  till  another  day  the  dreaded 
ordeal !  I  could  never  forget  those  bitter  experi 
ences,  which  I  trust  made  me  somewhat  tender  of 
the  feelings  of  literary  aspirants  when  in  later 
years  it  came  my  turn  to  exercise  a  little  brief 
authority  in  an  editorial  chair. 

Rebuffs  from  other  sources  made  me  peculiarly 
sensitive  to  the  first  kind  words  of  encouragement 
that  I  remember  receiving  in  those  days.  I  sup 
pose  I  was  all  the  more  grateful  for  them  because 
they  came  from  one  of  those  whom  it  required 
most  courage  to  meet.  In  my  boyhood  I  was 
overawed  by  imposing  reputations;  and  in  1847 
Major  Noah  was  one  of  the  prominent  men  of  New 
York.  He  had  originated  two  or  three  daily 
papers,  and  was  then  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
"  Sunday  Times."  He  had  written  successful 
plays,  and  was  the  author  of  two  or  three  books ; 
he  had  served  his  country  abroad,  and  had,  if  I  re 
member  rightly,  been  mayor  of  New  York.  He 
was  an  Israelite  who  aspired  to  be  a  leader  of  the 


96  MY   OWN   STORY 

Israelites ;  and  he  had  made  himself  widely  talked 
about  at  home  and  abroad  by  his  Utopian  scheme 
of  gathering  his  people  together  in  a  city  of  the 
Jews  on  Grand  Island  in  the  Niagara  River.  This 
New  Jerusalem  was  actually  begun,  but  never  got 
much  beyond  a  monument  on  the  ruins  of  which 
could  be  read  long  afterwards  the  inscription : 
"  Ararat,  a  City  of  Refuge  for  the  Jews,  founded 
by  Mordecai  M.  Noah  in  the  month  of  Tishri,  5586 
(September,  1825),  and  in  the  5oth  year  of  the 
American  Independence."  He  was  a  leading 
politician,  and  a  well-known  figure  in  New  York ; 
large,  portly,  with  strong,  florid,  Hebraic  features, 
at  that  time  a  little  over  60  years  of  age. 

To  him,  among  others,  I  submitted  a  specimen 
of  my  verse.  He  looked  up  from  his  desk,  in  a 
small,  littered  room,  where  he  was  writing  rapidly 
his  weekly  editorials  for  the  "Times,"  and  told  me 
dryly  that  it  would  be  of  no  use  for  him  to  read 
my  poem,  since  he  could  not  print  it. 

"  It  may  be  of  use  to  me,  if  you  will  take  the 
trouble  to  look  at  it,"  I  said ;  "  for  I  should  like 
to  have  some  person  of  experience  tell  me  whether 
there  is  any  chance  of  my  earning  money  by  my 
pen  in  this  city  of  New  York." 

"Anybody  who  wishes  to  do  that  must  write 
prose  and  leave  poetry  alone,"  he  replied.  Where 
upon  I  told  him  I  had  at  my  boarding-place  an 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER    97 

unfinished  story  I  would  like  to  show  him.  "  Fin 
ish  it,"  he  said,  "and  bring  it  to  me.  I  shall  not 
probably  be  able  to  use  it,  but  I  may  direct  you 
to  somebody  who  can.  At  all  events,  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  think  of  it." 

From  the  moment  when  he  spoke  to  me  I  was 
relieved  entirely  of  the  diffidence  with  which  I  had 
approached  him.  When  I  went  to  call  on  him 
again  I  felt  that  I  was  going  to  see  a  friend. 
Meanwhile  I  had  finished  my  story  —  the  most 
ambitious  thing  I  had  yet  attempted  —  and  sent 
it  to  him. 

He  offered  me  a  stool  beside  his  chair  and  laid 
out  my  manuscript  on  his  desk. 

"  Young  man,"  said  he,  "  I  think  you  have  it  in 
you."  I  was  speechless,  shivering  with  joy. 
"This,"  pushing  my  poem  aside,  "is  well  enough  ; 
you  may  get  to  write  very  good  verse  by  and  by. 
But  don't  write  any  more  while  you  have  to  earn 
your  living  by  your  pen.  Here  is  your  strong 
hold,"  laying  his  large  but  delicate  hand  on  my 
story.  "  I  have  n't  had  time  to  read  much  of  it, 
but  I  see  that  you  have  struck  the  right  key,  and 
that  you  have  had  the  good  sense  not  to  make 
your  style  too  dignified,  but  lively  and  entertain 
ing.  You  have  humor ;  you  can  tell  a  story ; 
that 's  a  great  deal  in  your  favor." 

This  is  the  substance  of  his  kindly  comment, 


98  MY  OWN   STORY 

which  the  novelty  of  the  circumstance  and  the 
immense  importance  to  me  of  the  occasion  im 
pressed  indelibly  upon  my  mind.  He  then  in 
quired  if  I  had  any  other  means  of  support. 

"None,  whatever,"  I  replied,  "unless  I  go  back 
to  farming  or  school-teaching,  which  I  don't  mean 
to  do." 

"  All  the  better,"  he  said ;  "  necessity  will  teach 
you  sobriety,  industry,  thrift.  You  will  have  to 
work  hard ;  you  will  meet  with  a  great  deal  of 
discouragement ;  but  writing  for  the  press  is  a 
perfectly  legitimate  profession,  and  if  you  devote 
yourself  to  it,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  n't 
succeed." 

I  do  not  know  that  ever  in  my  life  any  words 
had  made  me  so  happy  as  these.  In  subsequent 
days  of  struggle,  when  more  than  once  I  was  on 
the  point  of  flinging  down  my  pen,  I  sometimes 
wondered  whether  they  were  wise  for  him  to  speak 
or  good  for  me  to  hear.  But  now  that  more  than 
half  a  century  has  passed,  and  I  can  look  back 
upon  my  early  life  almost  as  dispassionately  as  if 
it  were  that  of  another  person,  I  can  thank  him 
again  for  the  first  authentic  judgment  ever  pro 
nounced  upon  my  literary  possibilities. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said,  putting  on  his  hat; 
and  we  went  out  together,  I  with  my  roll  of  manu 
script,  he  with  his  stout  cane.  Even  if  I  had  been 


MAJOR   MORDECAI    M.    XOAH 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER    99 

unaware  of  the  fact,  I  should  very  soon  have  dis 
covered  that  I  was  in  company  with  an  impor 
tant  personage.  Everybody  observed  him,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  every  third  or  fourth  man  we  met 
gave  him  a  respectful  salute.  He  continued  his 
friendly  talk  with  me  in  a  way  that  relieved  me  of 
all  sense  of  my  own  insignificance  in  the  shadow 
of  his  celebrity  and  august  proportions.  Looking 
back  upon  myself  now,  through  the  glass  of  mem 
ory,  I  behold  a  very  different  figure  from  that 
which  retired  so  precipitately  from  the  unman 
nerly  officer's  quarter-deck  hardly  two  weeks  be 
fore.  One  is  a  confident  youth,  stepping  hopefully 
beside  his  noble  guide  and  friend ;  the  other,  an 
abashed  and  verdant  boy.  There  seem  to  be 
two  of  me  on  those  curiously  contrasted  occasions. 

Ill 

The  Major  took  me  to  the  office  of  a  publisher 
in  Ann  Street,  who  did  not  chance  to  be  in.  He 
left  my  manuscript  with  a  good  word  for  it,  and  a 
promise  to  call  with  me  again.  Twice  afterwards 
he  took  me  to  Ann  Street  with  no  better  success. 
Such  disinterested  kindness,  on  the  part  of  an 
old  and  eminent  and  fully  occupied  man,  to  a 
strange  lad  from  the  country,  warms  my  heart 
again  with  reverence  and  gratitude  as  I  think  of  it 
at  this  distant  day. 


ioo  MY  OWN   STORY 

At  last  he  gave  me  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
Mr.  Williams,  the  Ann  Street  publisher,  and  ad 
vised  me  to  find  him  when  I  could.  I  did  at  last 
find  him,  with  a  smile  on  his  face  and  my  own 
manuscript  in  his  hand,  reading  it  with  manifest 
amusement,  when  I  handed  him  Noah's  letter.  It 
was  a  story,  as  I  recollect,  in  some  ten  chapters, 
in  which  I  had  made  an  attempt  to  portray  West 
ern  scenes  and  characters  as  I  had  observed  them 
during  my  year  in  Illinois.  After  some  talk  about 
it,  he  asked  me  what  price  I  expected  to  receive  for 
it.  I  replied  that  I  had  not  put  any  price  upon  it. 

"Major  Noah,"  I  said,  "advised  me  to  leave  that 
to  you."  But  as  he  urged  me  to  name  a  "  figure," 
I  said  I  had  hoped  it  might  be  worth  to  him  about 
a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars. 

"Hardly  that,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "We 
have  never  paid  so  much  for  any  writer's  first 
story." 

"  Oh,  well,"  I  replied,  "  name  your  own  price." 

He  named  twenty-five  dollars.  That  seems  a 
ludicrous  falling  away  from  my  figure,  but  I  did 
not  regard  it  as  at  all  ludicrous  at  the  time. 
Twenty-five  dollars,  as  the  first  substantial  earn 
ings  of  my  pen,  was  after  all  a  goodly  sum,  for 
one  in  my  circumstances,  and  vastly  better  than 
the  return  of  my  manuscript  into  my  hands. 
That  a  production  of  my  pen  could  be  deemed  to 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     101 

have  any  money  value  was  a  consideration  that 
carried  with  it  present  satisfaction  and  hope  in 
the  future.  I  gladly  accepted  his  offer,  and  saw 
him  lay  my  story  away  on  a  shelf  beside  a  number 
of  others  awaiting  each  its  turn  at  the  newspaper 
mill  of  novelettes  attached  to  the  publishing  shop. 

Soon  after  that  Major  Noah  took  me  to  the 
office  of  Mr.  Hold  en,  publisher  of  "Holden's  Dol 
lar  Magazine,"  so  called  because  it  was  sent  to  sub 
scribers  for  one  dollar  a  year,  although,  as  I  found, 
it  earned  a  still  further  claim  to  the  title  by  paying 
its  writers  one  dollar  a  page.  An  introduction  by 
Major  Noah  insured  me  polite  attention  from  Mr. 
Holden,  who  read  promptly  the  story  I  offered 
him  (a  sort  of  backwoods  adventure),  accepted  it, 
and  printed  it  in  his  forthcoming  number.  These 
were  the  first  contributions  of  mine  ever  accepted 
by  "  paying "  publications.  The  Holden  story 
was  quite  short ;  it  made  only  five  or  six  pages, 
and  I  remember  having  to  wait  for  my  five  or  six 
dollars  until  it  appeared  between  the  covers  of  the 
magazine.  It  was  copied  into  Hewitt's  "  People's 
Journal,"  of  London,  and  reprinted  in  many  papers 
in  this  country,  and  was  the  cause  of  my  indulging 
illusory  dreams  of  a  brilliantly  dawning  reputa 
tion. 

After  getting  a  second  story  accepted  by  "  Hoi- 
den's,"  and  one  by  another  periodical  of  some  liter- 


io2  MY   OWN    STORY 

ary  pretensions,  of  which  I  have  forgotten  even 
the  name,  I  determined  to  devote  myself  solely  to 
writing  for  magazines  and  newspapers.  I  have 
now  to  tell  how,  after  I  had  given  up  all  thought 
of  seeking  other  employment,  other  employment 
sought  me. 

IV 

Among  the  Duane  Street  boarders  was  an  Eng 
lishman  of  somewhat  distinguished  appearance, 
Dr.  Child,  with  whom  I  soon  became  quite  inti 
mately  acquainted,  although  he  was  my  senior  by 
about  fifteen  years.  Perhaps  we  were  all  the  more 
interested  in  each  other  because  of  the  contrast  in 
our  early  lives ;  he  had  been  confessedly  a  pro 
digal,  and  he  told  me  of  the  opportunities  he  had 
wasted,  while  I  confided  to  him  mine,  which  I 
had  shaped  for  myself  against  adverse  circum 
stances.  His  father  had  been  a  successful  oculist 
in  a  provincial  English  town,  in  whose  office  he 
had  had  experience  as  an  assistant,  and  upon 
whose  death  he  had  essayed  to  succeed  him  in  his 
practice.  Failing  in  that,  and  in  several  other 
ventures,  he  had  come  to  this  country  with  an 
eyewater  which  he  hoped  to  transmute  into  a  Pac- 
tolian  stream.  He  had  been  some  time  in  New 
York,  looking  for  a  partner  in  his  enterprise,  — 
the  doctor  to  furnish  the  formula,  as  an  offset  to 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     103 

the  ten  or  twenty  thousand  dollars  necessary  for 
the  manufacture  and  advertising. 

He  had  a  professional  habit  of  scrutinizing  peo 
ple's  optics,  and  perceiving  signs  of  the  chronic 
irritation  in  mine,  he  presented  me  with  a  bottle 
of  Child's  Magical  Remedy  (or  Radical  Remedy  ; 
I  have  forgotten  just  what  he  called  it,  but  one 
name  is  as  good  as  another),  which  he  guaranteed 
would  cure  them  in  ten  days.  This  was  the  begin 
ning  of  our  friendship,  which  would  have  con 
tinued  till  this  time  if  it  had  lasted  as  long  as  the 
ailment  has  that  he  proposed  to  relieve. 

I  had  known  him  barely  a  month  when  he  one 
day  drew  me  aside  to  ask  if  I  had  a  little  money 
I  could  spare.  "  Not  for  making  eyewater,"  I 
replied  jokingly  ;  but  he  was  profoundly  serious. 
He  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  left  a  wife  in  Eng 
land,  that  she  had  followed  him  to  America  (rather 
against  his  wishes,  I  inferred),  and  was  then  stay 
ing  with  a  relative  in  Hoboken.  He  was  planning 
to  set  up  housekeeping  with  her,  and  had  selected 
a  small  tenement  suitable  for  their  purpose  in  Jer 
sey  City.  But  the  furniture  was  all  to  be  bought, 
and  he  was  out  of  money.  The  Hoboken  relative 
(an  engraver  of  gold  watch-cases  and  watch-dials) 
would  help  him  a  little ;  but  he  needed  about  forty 
dollars  more ;  and  could  I  accommodate  him  with 
that  amount  ? 


104  MY   OWN    STORY 

"I  have  as  much,"  I  said  (I  had  just  got  my 
twenty-five  dollars  from  the  Ann  Street  shop), 
"but  I  shall  probably  need  it  to  pay  my  board 
before  I  get  more." 

"Advance  me  forty  dollars,"  he  replied,  "and 
come  and  live  with  us  and  board  it  out ; "  arguing 
that  a  quiet  home,  like  the  one  offered  me,  would 
be  much  pleasanter,  and  better  for  my  literary 
work,  than  the  Duane  Street  boarding-house. 

I  was  easily  persuaded,  and  handed  over  to  him 
nearly  all  the  money  I  had,  rather  rashly,  as  it 
seems  to  me  now ;  but  although,  in  his  role  of 
oculist  and  self-styled  "doctor,"  I  considered  him 
a  charlatan,  I  trusted  him  as  a  friend.  The  house 
was  furnished,  and  I  went  to  live  with  the  reunited 
pair,  in  very  modest  quarters  in  Jersey  City. 
There  I  passed  the  rest  of  that  summer  quite  com 
fortably,  taking  long  rambles  on  the  Jersey  side, 
a  salt-water  bath  every  morning  on  a  tide-washed 
beach  of  the  great  river,  and  frequent  ferry  trips 
to  New  York.  I  had  a  good  room  to  write  in,  with 
which  indispensable  convenience  I  felt  I  could  be 
happy  almost  anywhere. 

In  the  shop  of  the  Hoboken  relative  the  doctor 
had  learned  to  do  a  little  ornamental  work  with 
the  graver,  chiefly  on  gold  pencil-cases  ;  and  some 
time  in  the  autumn  he  set  up  a  little  shop  of  his 
own,  in  the  back  room  at  home.  I  used  to  sit  by 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES    AS   A  WRITER     105 

his  table,  watching  him  ;  and  one  day,  borrowing 
a  graver  and  a  strip  of  zinc,  I  amused  myself  with 
them  while  we  talked.  After  a  little  practice  I 
could  cut  his  simple  rose-petals  and  little  branch 
ing  scrolls  as  well  as  he  could,  and  soon  found  my 
self  working  on  the  pencil-cases.  Gold  pencils 
were  the  fashion  in  those  days,  and  as  Christmas 
was  approaching,  he  had  more  work  than  he  could 
do  without  assistance.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
periodicals  I  was  writing  for  had  accepted  as  many 
of  my  articles  as  they  could  use  for  some  time  to 
come,  and,  as  I  generally  had  to  wait  for  my  pay 
until  the  day  of  publication,  I  was  in  need  of 
money,  and  glad  of  a  chance  to  earn  it.  So,  when 
he  proposed  to  take  me  into  partnership,  I  accepted 
the  offer,  bought  a  set  of  gravers,  and  settled 
down  to  the  work,  which  was  quite  to  my  taste, 
and  which,  almost  from  the  start,  I  could  turn  off 
as  rapidly  as  he.  It  required  something  of  a  knack 
to  make  with  a  free  hand  the  clean,  graceful 
strokes,  of  varying  width  and  depth,  taking  care 
never  to  cut  through  the  thin  material. 

Those  were  pleasant  hours  for  me,  in  the  small 
back  room.  The  doctor  was  excellent  company. 
He  had  done  a  good  deal  of  miscellaneous  reading, 
and  seen  a  life  as  widely  different  from  mine  as 
his  provincial  England  was  distant  from  my  own 
native  backwoods  and  Western  prairies;  and  (if 


106  MY  OWN   STORY 

his  wife  chanced  to  be  out  of  earshot)  he  delighted 
to  impart  to  me  his  varied  experiences.  Some  of 
these  were  not,  from  a  moralistic  point  of  view, 
particularly  to  his  credit,  but  I  was  an  eager  stu 
dent  of  life,  and  nothing  human  was  foreign  to  my 
interest. 

His  eyewater  having  failed  to  float  his  for 
tunes,  it  is  difficult  to  conjecture  what  would  have 
become  of  the  Jersey  City  housekeeping,  and  of 
me  and  my  forty  dollars,  but  for  this  industry,  to 
which  he  was  introduced  by  the  Hoboken  rela 
tive.  I  boarded  out  his  debt  to  me  according  to 
our  agreement ;  and  through  the  connection  thus 
formed  I  was  by  the  middle  of  December  earning 
two  or  three  dollars  a  day  at  the  trade  picked  up 
thus  by  accident. 

It  was  not  solely  to  keep  the  work  from  seeking 
other  hands,  nor  through  good-will  to  me,  that  he 
took  me  into  partnership.  He  was  then  getting 
his  pencil-cases  from  the  factories,  and  it  was  gall 
ing  to  his  sense  of  dignity  that  he,  a  professional 
man  and  a  gentleman  (an  English  gentleman,  re 
collect),  should  be  obliged  to  go  for  them,  and 
return  them,  and  receive  his  paltry  pay,  like  a 
common  mechanic. 

After  we  became  partners,  I  assumed  the  out 
door  duties,  which  were  an  agreeable  change  from 
plodding  over  the  pencil-cases,  the  more  especially 


107 

as  one  of  the  factories  was  in  New  York,  and 
crossing  the  ferries  was  a  delight  to  me,  in  all 
weathers  and  at  all  seasons  of  the  year.  I  can  see 
myself  now,  on  a  wild  winter's  morning,  watching 
from  the  bow  —  or,  if  there  was  too  keen  a  wind, 
or  snow  or  sleet  driving,  from  a  cabin  window  — 
the  careening  sloops,  the  diagonally-crossing  ferry 
boats,  the  foraging  gulls,  and  the  cakes  of  floating 
ice  amid  which  our  boat  made  its  way. 

After  Christmas,  work  was  less  plenty,  and 
occasionally  there  was  none  at  all.  We  now  ex 
perienced  the  disadvantage  of  not  having  acquired 
the  handicraft  by  a  more  thorough  apprenticeship. 
The  New  York  factory,  pleased  with  our  pencil- 
cases,  proposed  to  me  to  take  silver  combs  to 
engrave ;  and  I  remember  how  reluctant  I  was  to 
admit  that  I  had  learned  to  do  pencil-cases  only. 
The  surface  of  the  high  silver  comb  (such  as  ladies 
wore  in  those  days)  called  for  a  breadth  of  treat 
ment  quite  beyond  my  experience.  The  foreman 
thought  I  could  do  it,  and,  after  my  frank  confes 
sion,  I  was  willing  to  make  the  trial.  I  took  home 
one  of  the  combs  and  carved  on  it  a  design  that 
must  have  astonished  him  by  its  bold  originality. 
I  recall  the  peculiar  smile  with  which  he  held  it 
up  and  regarded  it.  I  can  also  still  imagine  the 
galaxy  of  bright  faces  that  would  have  been  turned 
towards  any  lady  venturing  to  bear  that  cynosure 


io8  MY   OWN   STORY 

aloft  on  her  back  hair  in  any  civilized  assembly. 
It  would  have  been  just  the  thing  for  the  Queen 
of  Dahomey,  or  a  belle  of  the  Cannibal  Islands. 
But  the  factory  was  not  making  combs  for  those 
markets.  Blushing  very  red,  I  remarked,  "  I  told 
you  I  couldn't  do  it." 

The  foreman  replied,  "  I  guess  you  told  the 
truth  for  once  !  " 

We  had  a  good  laugh  over  it,  which  he  probably 
enjoyed  more  than  I  did.  I  knew  as  well  as  he 
how  grotesquely  bad  it  was,  and  was  surprised 
when  he  added,  — 

"  For  a  first  attempt  you  might  have  done  worse. 
You  need  practice  and  instruction."  He  then 
proposed  that  I  should  come  and  work  in  the 
shop,  assuring  me  that  I  should  be  earning  a  good 
living  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks.  He  knew 
my  friend's  Hoboken  relative,  who  was  easily 
earning  his  seven  or  eight  dollars  a  day  by  cutting 
miniature  setters  and  pheasants,  nests  with  eggs, 
and  tufts  of  grass,  on  gold  watch-dials,  and  thought 
I  could  do  as  well  in  time.  The  proposal  was  al 
luring,  and  it  required  courage  to  decline  it.  But 
I  had  chosen  my  calling,  and  could  not  think  seri 
ously  of  another. 

Soon  after  that,  the  supply  of  pencil-cases  ran 
so  low  that  there  was  not  work  enough  even  for 
one  ;  so  I  withdrew  from  the  partnership  and  re- 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     109 

turned  to  my  writing,  —  which,  indeed,  I  had  never 
quite  abandoned.  I  passed  the  winter  pleasantly 
and  contentedly  enough.  But  one  such  winter 
sufficed.  Then  in  spring  the  young  man's  fancy 
lightly  turned  to  a  change  of  boarding-place. 


One  forenoon,  as  I  was  strolling  on  Broadway, 
not  far  above  City  Hall  Park,  I  saw  in  a  door 
way  the  notice,  "  Furnished  Room  to  let."  There 
were  similar  notices  displayed  all  over  the  city, 
and  I  must  have  passed  several  that  morning  ;  but 
at  that  door,  up  a  flight  of  steps  (there  was  a  wine 
store  in  the  basement),  something  impelled  me  to 
ring,  —  my  good  genius,  if  I  have  one.  It  proved 
to  be  the  one  domicile  in  which,  if  I  had  thought 
of  it  beforehand,  I  should  have  deemed  it  espe 
cially  fortunate  to  be  received.  If  I  had  sought 
it  I  should  probably  never  have  found  it ;  and  I 
had  come  upon  it  by  what  appeared  the  merest 
chance. 

A  French  maid  admitted  me,  and  a  vivacious 
Frenchman,  who  spoke  hardly  a  word  of  English, 
showed  me  the  room,  and  introduced  me  to  his 
wife,  a  stout,  red-faced  woman,  as  voluble  and 
friendly,  and  as  delightfully  ignorant  of  English, 
as  himself.  They  seemed  as  happy  at  the  pro 
spect  of  having  a  lodger  who  could  speak  their 


no  MY  OWN   STORY 

language  a  little  as  I  was  pleased  to  enter  a  family 
in  which  only  French  was  spoken.  They  took  no 
boarders,  and  the  room  alone  —  a  good-sized  one, 
up  three  flights,  with  an  outlook  on  Broadway  — 
cost  two  thirds  as  much  as  I  had  paid  for  board 
and  lodgings  together  in  Duane  Street  and  Jersey 
City,  —  far  too  much  for  my  precarious  income ; 
but  I  could  not  let  pass  such  an  opportunity  for 
acquiring  a  colloquial  familiarity  with  the  language 
I  had  as  yet  had  but  little  practice  in  speaking. 
As  I  was  to  get  my  meals  outside,  I  thought  I 
could,  when  necessary,  scrimp  enough  in  that  di 
rection  to  offset  the  higher  room  rent. 

I  hastened  back  to  Jersey  City,  packed  my 
books  and  baggage,  and  took  leave  of  the  friends 
in  whose  home  I  had  been  an  inmate  for  about  nine 
months.  I  was  a  home-loving  youth,  and  it  was 
always  painful  for  me  to  sever  such  ties,  even  after 
they  had  become  a  little  irksome  ;  but  in  this  in 
stance  any  regrets  I  may  have  felt  were  lessened 
by  the  immediate  certainty  of  a  desirable  change. 
I  was  like  a  plant  that  had  outgrown  its  environ 
ment,  and  exhausted  the  soil  which  had  for  a  sea 
son  sufficed  for  its  nourishment  ;  and  the  very 
roots  of  my  being  rejoiced  in  the  prospect  of  trans 
plantation. 

I  saw  little  of  the  Childs  after  the  separation, 
and  soon  lost  track  of  them  altogether.  I  often 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     in 

wondered  what  had  become  of  the  doctor,  with 
his  eyewater,  and  his  pencil-case  engraving,  so  in 
compatible  with  his  English  dignity,  and  of  do 
mestic  Mrs.  Child,  with  her  dear  little  dropped  h's, 
—  into  what  haven  they  could  have  drifted,  out  of 
the  fierce  currents  of  our  American  life,  which 
they  seemed  so  incompetent  to  cope  with  ;  but  I 
never  knew,  until,  some  five  and  twenty  years 
afterwards,  a  tall,  elderly  gentleman,  with  grizzled 
locks,  and  of  rather  distinguished  appearance, 
sought  me  out,  in  Arlington.  It  was  my  old  friend 
the  doctor.  He  had  come  to  make  me  a  friendly 
visit ;  but  it  seemed  that  it  was,  after  all,  partly 
woman's  curiosity  that  had  sent  him  ;  Mrs.  Child 
having  charged  him  not  to  pass  through  Boston, 
where  he  had  business,  without  learning  for  a  cer 
tainty  if  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  the  writer,  and  so  forth, 
was  the  person  of  the  same  name  who,  when  little 
more  than  a  boy,  had  engraved  pencil-cases  and 
sat  up  late  nights  over  his  books  and  manuscripts 
in  the  Jersey  City  cottage.  I  was  gratified  to  learn 
that  they  had  found  a  port  of  peace,  into  which 
Providence  itself  seemed  to  have  guided  their 
bark,  after  many  vicissitudes  of  storm  and  calm. 
They  had  at  last  found  their  proper  place  in  an 
Old  Peoples'  Home,  or  some  such  institution,  in 
Baltimore,  not  as  dependent  inmates,  I  was  glad 
to  know,  but  as  superintendent  and  matron.  I 


ii2  MY  OWN   STORY 

could  hardly  imagine  a  more  ideal  position  for  him 
with  his  affable  manners  and  mild  dignity,  and  for 
her  with  her  strict  domestic  economy,  —  not  too 
strict,  I  trust,  for  the  inmates  under  their  charge. 
Another  quarter  of  a  century,  and  more,  has 
swept  by  since  the  doctor's  visit,  and  the  two 
must  long  since  have  fallen  in  with  the  procession 
of  those  who  have  entered  that  Home,  from  the 
world  of  struggle  and  failure,  and,  after  a  sojourn 
more  or  less  brief  in  its  tranquil  retreat,  passed 
on  into  the  shadow  of  the  Greater  Peace. 

VI 

My  Broadway  landlord  was  M.  Perrault,  one  of 
the  best  known  members  of  the  French  colony  in 
New  York  ;  an  accomplished  violinist,  and  leader 
of  the  orchestra  at  Niblo's  Garden.  The  family 
was  as  characteristically  French  and  Parisian  as 
the  Jersey  City  household  had  been  English  and 
provincial.  Although  only  a  lodger,  I  was  wel 
comed  at  once  to  the  small  salon,  and  made  to 
feel  so  much  at  home  in  it  that  from  the  first  I 
spent  much  of  my  leisure  time  with  the  Perrault s 
and  their  friends  who  frequented  the  house.  The 
very  first  Sunday  after  my  arrival  I  was  invited 
to  dinner,  and  made  acquainted  with  French  cook 
ery,  and  that  indispensable  attendant  upon  it  and 
promoter  of  good  cheer,  Bordeaux  wine.  There 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS  A  WRITER     113 

were  only  four  at  table,  the  two  Perraults,  their 
son  Raphael,  a  boy  of  nine,  and  myself,  the  only 
guest.  But  it  was  a  dinner  of  courses,  —  not  very 
expensive,  I  judge,  and  certainly  neither  lavish 
nor  ostentatious  ;  every  dish  simple,  individual, 
and  prepared  in  ways  that  were  at  once  as  novel 
to  me  as  they  were  agreeable.  Perrault  was  him 
self  an  amateur  cook,  of  a  skill  that  might  have 
qualified  him  as  a  chef,  if  he  had  not  been  making 
a  good  income  more  satisfactorily  by  conducting 
Niblo's  orchestra,  teaching  the  violin,  and  copy 
ing  scores.  He  was  the  inventor  of  a  sauce  Per 
rault,  which,  Madame  boasted,  was  popular  among 
their  New  York  compatriots,  and  even  had  some 
vogue  in  Paris.  Every  few  days  after  that,  me 
morably  on  Sundays,  he  would  come  to  my  room 
and  smilingly  announce  that  he  had  given  the 
finishing  touches  to  the  dinner,  and  had  come  to 
take  me  down  with  him,  perhaps  adding  gentle 
force  to  urgent  persuasion.  If  I  remonstrated, 
"  Not  so  soon  again ;  you  are  altogether  too 
kind !"  he  would  assure  me  that  my  dining  with 
them  was  considered  by  both  him  and  Madame  as 
a  favor,  and  she  especially  would  be  de'sole'e  if  I 
declined.  Nor  could  I  believe  him  in  any  way 
hypocritical ;  there  could  be  no  motive  for  their 
proffered  hospitality  but  the  satisfaction  there  was 
in  it  for  them  and  for  their  guest.  They  were 


ii4  MY  OWN   STORY 

kind-hearted,  fond  of  society,  and  ardent  in  friend 
ship,  and  if  their  Gallic  cordiality  was  sometimes 
effusive  rather  than  deep,  it  was  not  insincere. 

I  had  been  with  them  but  a  short  time  when 
another  opportunity  was  opened  to  me,  —  golden, 
glorious,  to  an  impecunious  youth !  Might  Per- 
rault  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  me  to  the  thea 
tre  ?  When  Niblo's  was  n't  crowded  he  could  at 
any  time  smuggle  in  a  friend.  Of  course  I  was 
enchanted  to  accept  ;  and  well  I  remember  the 
awesome  mystery  of  the  dim  stage  entrance,  — 
his  violin  preceding  him,  as  we  passed  the  obliging 
doorkeeper,  and  I  following,  fast  held  by  his  other 
hand  ;  —  then  the  tortuous  way  behind  the  scenes 
and  under  the  stage,  to  a  seat  in  the  front  row, 
near  the  orchestra  (there  were  no  orchestra  stalls 
in  those  days).  The  house  was  filling  rapidly; 
the  musicians  took  their  places  ;  quiet  succeeded 
the  rustle  of  music  leaves  and  the  tuning  of  in 
struments,  and  suddenly,  in  an  instant,  what  there 
was  of  me  was  converted  into  a  bundle  of  thrills 
from  head  to  foot,  my  joy  in  the  music  quickened 
by  the  novelty  of  the  situation  and  the  pride  I 
felt  in  Perrault's  leadership. 

The  performance  that  followed  was  not  by  any 
means  my  first  play ;  but  I  had  never  before  seen 
a  great  actor  in  a  great  part.  The  piece  was 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  and  from  that  coigne 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     115 

of  vantage,  a  seat  in  the  front  row,  I  for  the  first 
time  beheld  Hackett  as  Falstaff,  to  my  mind  then, 
and  as  I  remember  it  still,  an  amazing  perso 
nation  of  the  greatest  comic  character  on  the 
stage.  Other  good  acting  I  witnessed  that  season 
at  Niblo's,  under  Perrault's  auspices,  but  every 
thing  else  fades  in  the  effulgence  of  Falstaff, 
and  the  rainbow  hues  of  a  troupe  of  ballet  girls 
that  came  later.  Could  it  have  been  any  such 
troupe  of  frilled  and  lithe-limbed  nymphs  that 
Carlyle  saw  on  a  London  stage,  and  scornfully 
described  as  "  mad,  restlessly  jumping  and  clip 
ping  scissors  "?  —  those  leaping  and  pirouetting, 
curving  and  undulating  shapes,  miraculous,  glori 
fied,  weaving  their  dance,  every  movement  timed 
to  the  strains  of  the  orchestra,  a  living  web  of 
beauty  and  music  !  For  such  indeed  they  were 
—  not  jumping  scissors,  in  whirling  inverted 
saucers  !  —  to  my  dewy  adolescence. 

Among  the  advantages  enjoyed  in  my  new  lodg 
ing,  I  must  not  omit  a  large  miscellaneous  collec 
tion,  mostly  in  paper  covers,  of  the  works  of 
French  authors.  It  was  not  lacking  in  the  earlier 
classics,  but  it  was  especially  rich  in  the  produc 
tions  of  contemporary  writers,  novelists,  drama 
tists,  poets,  then  at  the  zenith  of  their  celebrity, 
or  nearing  it,  —  Sue,  Balzac,  Victor  Hugo,  George 
Sand,  and  her  confrere,  Jules  Sandeau,  Lamar- 


n6  MY  OWN   STORY 

tine,  Dumas,  Scribe,  Souli6,  and  a  long  list  beside. 
These  I  read  indiscriminately  and  with  avidity,  in 
days  of  discouragement  and  forced  leisure,  while 
waiting  for  my  accepted  articles  to  appear,  or  for 
others  to  be  accepted  by  the  periodicals  I  was 
writing  for.  My  solitude  was  peopled  and  my 
loneliness  soothed  by  a  world  of  fictitious  charac 
ters  in  Monte  Christo  and  Les  Trois  Mousque- 
taires  (I  wish  I  could  read  them  now,  or  anything 
else,  with  such  zest !),  Le  Juif  Errant  (I  had  my 
own  choice  copy  of  Les  Mysteres  de  Paris),  Hugo's 
Le  Dernier  Jour  d'un  Condamne",  George  Sand's 
Indiana,  and,  among  others  not  least,  Scribe's 
Pequillo  Alliaga,  a  romance  of  adventure,  eclipsed 
by  the  number  and  popularity  of  the  author's 
dramas,  but  worthy,  I  then  thought  (I  wonder 
what  I  should  think  now),  to  take  rank  with  Le 
Sage's  Gil  Bias.  Perrault  was  a  scoffer  at  super 
stition  and  prudery  (I  shrink  from  saying  religion 
and  virtue,  which  might  perhaps  be  nearer  exacti 
tude),  and  he  did  not  mind  the  risk  of  corrupting 
my  youth  by  putting  into  my  hands  Voltaire's  La 
Pucelle  and  Parny's  La  Guerre  des  Dieux.  But 
the  risk  was  not  great.  Something  instinctive 
afforded  me  a  duck -like  immunity  in  passing 
through  puddles. 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES  AS  A  WRITER     117 

VII 

It  might  have  been  possible  for  me  to  live  by 
writing  stories  at  one  dollar  a  page  or  two  dollars 
and  a  half  a  chapter,  if  I  could  have  got  them 
published  after  they  were  accepted  or  paid  for 
when  published.  To  widen  my  field,  and  secure, 
as  I  hoped,  better  compensation,  I  sent  an  essay 
to  the  Knickerbocker,  then  the  foremost  literary 
periodical  in  the  country.  It  quickly  appeared  in 
those  elegant  pages,  to  which  Irving  and  his  com 
peers  had  given  character ;  and  full  of  confidence 
in  this  new  vehicle  for  my  productions,  I  went  one 
morning  to  call  on  the  polite  editor.  He  received 
me  cordially,  appeared  somewhat  surprised  at  my 
youth,  and  assured  me  that  the  covers  of  his  mag 
azine  would  always  be  elastic  enough  to  make 
room  for  such  papers  as  that  which  I  had  given 
him.  "Given"  him,  I  found  it  was  in  a  quite 
literal  sense,  for  when  I  hinted  at  the  subject  of 
compensation,  he  smilingly  informed  me  that  it 
was  not  his  custom  to  pay  for  the  contributions  of 
new  writers.  As  he  had  rushed  my  essay  into 
print  without  notifying  me  of  its  acceptance,  or 
consulting  me  as  to  the  signature  I  wished  to  have 
attached  to  it,  and  as  I  had  purposely  withheld 
the  pseudonym  under  which  I  was  writing  for  less 
literary  periodicals,  and  had  not  yet  begun  to  write 


n8  MY  OWN   STORY 

under  my  own  name,  he  had  published  it  anony 
mously,  so  that  I  did  not  even  have  the  credit 
of  being  a  contributor  to  Knickerbocker.  I  was 
then  using  chiefly  the  pseudonym  of  Paul  Creyton, 
which  I  kept  for  some  years  for  two  reasons,  — 
first,  because  I  was  well  aware  of  my  work  being 
only  that  of  a  'prentice  hand,  and  wished  to  re 
serve  my  own  name  for  more  mature  composi 
tions  ;  and,  second,  as  Paul  Creyton  grew  in  popu 
larity,  I  found  an  ever  increasing  advantage  in 
retaining  so  good  an  introduction  to  editors  and 
readers.  If  I  had  put  off  using  my  own  name 
until  I  was  confident  of  doing  my  best  work,  I 
might  never  have  used  it ;  so  that,  as  it  seems  to 
me  now,  I  might  as  well  have  begun  using  it  from 
the  first,  —  or  rather,  a  modified  form  of  it,  writing 
it  Townsend  Trowbridge,  omitting  the  J.  or  John 
for  greater  distinctiveness,  and  to  avoid  confusion 
of  identity  with  any  other  Trowbridge. 

I  can  hardly  remember  now  what  periodicals  I 
wrote  for,  or  what  I  wrote ;  but  one  story  I  recall, 
which  I  should  probably  have  forgotten  with  the 
rest,  if  it  had  not  come  to  light  again,  like  a  lost 
river,  a  few  years  later.  It  was  a  novelette  in 
three  or  four  installments,  that  was  accepted  by 
the  Manhattan  Flashlight  (although  that  was  not 
the  name  of  the  paper)  with  such  unexampled 
promptitude,  and  in  a  letter  so  polite,  complimen- 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     119 

tary,  and  full  of  golden  promise,  that  once  more  the 
tide  in  my  affairs  seemed  at  the  flood.  Or  nearly 
so ;  each  installment  was  to  be  liberally  paid  for 
when  published,  and  the  first  would  be  put  into 
the  printer's  hands  immediately  upon  my  accept 
ance  of  the  editorial  terms.  Accept  them  I  did 
with  joyful  celerity ;  then,  having  waited  two  or 
three  weeks,  I  called  at  the  publication  office,  only 
to  find  the  door  locked,  and  the  appalling  notice 
staring  me  in  the  face,  "  To  Let  —  Inquire  Room 
below."  At  "room  below"  I  inquired  with  a  sick 
heart,  "  What  has  become  of  the  Flashlight  ?  " 
and  was  told  that  it  had  "gone  out."  The  pro 
prietor  had  decamped,  leaving  behind  him  nothing 
but  debts ;  and  I  could  neither  come  upon  his  trail 
nor  recover  my  manuscript. 

Two  or  three  years  afterward  a  Boston  editor 
asked  me  how  it  chanced  that  I  was  writing  a 
continued  story  for  a  certain  New  York  weekly 
paper  of  a  somewhat  questionable  character ;  a 
paper  I  had  never  heard  of  before.  It  was  my 
lost  river  reappearing  in  the  most  unexpected  of 
desert  places.  I  wrote  to  the  publisher  for  expla 
nations,  and  after  a  long  and  harassing  delay  was 
informed  that  he  had  received  my  manuscript 
with  the  assets  of  some  business  he  had  bought 
out  (not  the  Flashlight),  that  I  must  look  to  his 
predecessor  for  redress,  and  that  he  would  be 


120  MY   OWN    STORY 

pleased  to  receive  from  me  another  story  as  good ! 
He  must  have  been  lacking  in  a  sense  of  humor, 
or  he  would  have  added  "on  the  same  terms." 
Redress  from  any  source  was  of  course  out  of  the 
question. 

About  this  time,  in  Boston,  I  knew  of  a  similar 
adventure  befalling  a  story  by  an  author  of  world 
wide  reputation.  After  the  publication  of  The 
Scarlet  Letter  had  made  "  the  obscurest  man  of 
letters  in  America"  one  of  the  most  famous,  the 
gloomy  but  powerfully  impressive  story  of  Ethan 
Brand,  which  was  written  several  years  before, 
and  had  lain  neglected  in  the  desks  of  unappre- 
ciative  editors,  appeared  as  "  original  "  in  the  col 
umns  of  the  Boston  Literary  Museum.  Know 
ing  the  editor,  I  hastened  to  inquire  of  him  how 
he  had  been  able  to  get  a  contribution  from  Haw 
thorne.  Complacently  puffing  his  cigar,  he  told 
me  it  had  come  to  him  from  some  other  office, 
where  it  had  been  "knocking  around,"  that  he 
did  n't  suppose  it  had  ever  been  paid  for,  and  that 
he  had  printed  it  without  consulting  the  author. 
He  rather  expected  to  hear  from  him,  but  he 
never  did ;  and  it  is  quite  probable  that  Haw 
thorne  never  knew  of  the  illicit  publication.  He 
must  have  kept  a  copy  of  the  strayed  Ethan 
Brand,  which  not  long  after  appeared  in  author 
ized  form  elsewhere. 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     121 

Among  the  few  friends  who  used  to  climb  to 
my  third-story  room  on  Broadway  was  old  Major 
Noah,  whom  I  can  remember  flushed  and  puffing 
like  another  Falstaff,  as  he  sank  into  a  chair  after 
ascending  those  steep  flights.  He  would  stop  on 
his  way  downtown,  to  give  me  a  kindly  greeting, 
and  to  inquire  about  my  prospects ;  he  also  gave 
me  a  little  work  to  do  in  the  way  of  translation 
from  the  French.  He  once  brought  me  a  volume 
of  Paris  sketches,  from  which,  not  reading  the 
language  himself,  he  desired  me  to  select  and 
translate  for  him  such  as  I  deemed  best  suited  to 
the  latitude  of  New  York.  The  surprising  simi 
larity  of  the  life  of  the  two  cities  was  exemplified 
by  the  fact  that  the  translations  I  made  were 
printed  with  but  few  changes  in  the  columns  of 
the  Sunday  Times,  and  served  quite  as  well  for 
New  York  as  for  Paris.  I  quickly  caught  the 
trick  of  adaptation,  and  soon  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  those  social  satires  appear  in  the  Major's 
paper  (anonymously,  of  course),  with  many  local 
touches  I  had  given  them  before  they  passed 
under  his  experienced  pen. 

VIII 

Another  good  friend  I  had  was  Archibald 
McLees,  an  expert  line  and  letter  engraver,  and  a 
man  of  very  decided  literary  tastes.  I  found  his 


122  MY  OWN   STORY 

shop  a  delightful  lounging  place  ;  seated  on  a  high 
stool,  with  his  steel  plate  before  him,  in  white 
light,  he  would  talk  with  me  of  Dickens  and 
Scott,  Be"ranger  and  Moliere,  turning  now  and 
then  from  his  work,  with  an  expressive  look  over 
his  shoulder,  to  give  point  to  some  story,  or  a 
quotation  from  Sam  Weller.  We  dined  together 
at  the  restaurants,  took  excursions  together  (he 
knew  the  city  like  a  native),  and  once  went 
together  to  sit  for  our  phrenological  charts  in  the 
office  of  the  Fowlers.  The  younger  Fowler  made 
a  few  hits,  in  manipulating  our  craniums  ;  but  on 
coming  away,  we  concluded  that,  except  for  the 
names  written  on  our  respective  charts,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  distinguish  one  from  the 
other.  McLees  had  as  much  literary  ability  as  I, 
according  to  the  scale  of  numbers ;  while  I  seemed 
fully  his  equal  in  artistic  taste  and  mechanic  skill. 
As  the  object  I  had  chiefly  in  view,  in  consulting 
a  phrenologist,  was  to  get  some  outward  evidence 
of  my  aptitude  for  the  career  I  had  chosen,  the 
result  was  disappointing.  Fowler's  first  words, 
in  placing  his  hand  on  my  forehead  — "  This 
brain  is  always  thinking  —  thinking  —  thinking!" 
-  led  me  to  expect  a  striking  delineation  ;  but  I 
afterwards  reflected  that,  like  other  remarks  that 
followed,  they  would  have  applied  equally  well  to 
any  number  of  heads  that  passed  under  his  obser- 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     123 

vation.  He  made  a  correct  map  of  the  country, 
yet  quite  failed  to  penetrate  the  life  of  the  region, 
or  to  take  into  account  the  electric  and  skyey  in 
fluences  which,  quite  as  much  as  the  topographi 
cal  conformation,  cause  each  to  differ  from  any 
other.  About  this  time  I  went  with  a  young  man 
of  my  acquaintance  to  attend  one  of  Fowler's 
lectures.  My  friend  was  a  rather  commonplace 
fellow,  but  he  had  a  massive  frontal  development, 
and  Fowler,  who  singled  him  out  from  the  audi 
ence  and  called  him  to  the  platform  for  a  public 
examination,  gave  him  a  Websterian  intellect. 
Websterian  faculties  he  may  have  had,  yet  he 
somehow  lacked  the  spirit  needful  to  give  them 
force  and  character.  The  mill  was  too  big  for 
the  water  power. 

I  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  McLees  for 
some  time  after  I  left  Boston  ;  a  circumstance  I 
had  quite  forgotten  until  one  of  his  sons  informed 
me,  not  long  ago,  that  the  family  still  preserves 
letters  of  mine  written  to  him  (O  delicious  salad 
days  !)  in  French.  I  have  no  wish  to  see  them. 

IX 

I  carried  out  heroically  enough  my  plan  of  re 
trenching  in  other  ways  to  offset,  when  necessary, 
my  increased  room  rent.  This  necessity  came 
not  very  long  after  my  installment  at  Perrault's. 


124  MY   OWN   STORY 

I  stopped  buying  books,  but  that  was  no  great 
sacrifice  as  long  as  I  had  access  to  shelves  crowded 
with  the  most  attractive  French  authors ;  and  an 
evening  now  and  then  at  Niblo's  made  it  easy  for 
me  to  forego  other  places  of  amusement.  Then 
I  could  enjoy  a  band  concert  any  fine  summer 
evening  sitting  at  my  open  window. 

To  keep  myself  comfortable  and  presentable  in 
the  matter  of  dress  was  always  my  habit ;  I  bought 
nothing  on  credit  (probably  I  could  n't  have  done 
otherwise  if  I  had  tried) ;  and  I  should  have  felt 
dishonored  if  ever  my  laundress  delivered  her 
bundle  and  went  away  unpaid.  So  that  there 
remained  only  one  direction  in  which  my  expend 
itures  could  be  much  curtailed. 

I  had  begun  with  three  meals  a  day  at  the  res 
taurants,  which  I  soon  reduced  to  two,  then  a  few 
weeks  later  to  one,  and  finally  on  a  few  occasions 
to  none  at  all.  I  didn't  starve  in  the  mean  while  ; 
on  the  contrary  I  lived  well  enough  to  keep  my 
self  in  the  condition  of  excellent  (although  never 
very  robust)  health,  which  I  enjoyed  at  all  sea 
sons,  and  at  whatever  occupation,  through  all  my 
early  years.  Hungry  I  may  have  been  at  times, 
but  no  more  so,  probably,  than  was  good  for  me, 
and  never  for  long.  When  I  could  n't  afford  a 
meal  at  the  restaurants  I  would  smuggle  a  six 
penny  loaf  up  my  three  flights  and  into  my  room 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     125 

(I  was  ashamed  of  this  forced  economy),  with  per 
haps  a  little  fruit  or  a  wedge  of  cheese.  This  I 
might  have  found  hard  fare,  and  unsatisfactory, 
had  it  not  been  sauced  with  something  that  made 
up  for  the  lack  of  luxuries  :  a  pure  and  wholesome 
light  wine,  vin  ordinaire,  which  through  Perrault 
I  could  get  in  the  store  downstairs  at  the  import 
er's  price  of  a  shilling  a  bottle  (twelve  and  a  half 
cents).  With  a  glass  of  this  I  could  always  make 
a  palatable  meal  off  my  loaf  and  fruit ;  the  worst 
feature  being  the  solitariness  of  it,  and  the  absence 
of  that  which  renders  a  frugal  repast  better  than 
a  banquet  without  it,  friendly  converse  at  table. 
In  this  respect  the  restaurant  was  not  much  bet 
ter,  except  when  I  had  a  companion  at  dinner, 
which  was  n't  always  convenient ;  so  that  I  soon 
became  weary  enough  of  this  unsocial  way  of 
living.  Sometimes  I  hardly  knew  where  the  next 
loaf  was  coming  from  ;  but  then  I  would  get  pay 
for  an  article  in  time  to  keep  me  from  actual  want 
and  out  of  debt ;  or  I  would  raise  money  in 
another  way  that  I  shrink  from  mentioning,  not 
from  any  feeling  of  false  pride  at  this  distant  day, 
but  on  account  of  the  associations  the  memory  of 
it  calls  up. 

When  necessity  pressed,  I  would  take  from  my 
modest  collection  the  volumes  I  could  best  spare, 
and  dispose  of  them  at  a  second-hand  bookstore 


i26  MY   OWN   STORY 

for  about  one  quarter  what  they  had  cost  me,  yet 
generally  enough  for  the  day's  need.  One  night 
I  even  passed  under  the  ill-omened  sign,  that 
triple  emblem  of  avarice,  want,  and  woe,  the 
pawnbroker's  three  balls  ;  an  occasion  rendered 
memorable  to  me  by  a  painful  circumstance.  I 
parted  with  a  flute  that  I  had  paid  two  dollars  and 
a  half  for  when  I  had  a  boyish  ambition  to  be 
come  a  player,  and  which  I  was  glad  to  pledge  for 
the  cost  of  a  dinner  when  I  had  given  up  the 
practice  and  did  n't  expect  ever  to  resume  it. 
The  money-lender's  cage  had  two  wickets  open 
ing  into  the  narrow  entry-way  ;  while  I  paused  at 
one  of  these,  the  slight,  shrinking  figure  of  a 
woman  all  in  black  came  to  the  other,  and  pushed 
in,  over  the  worn  and  greasy  counter,  a  bundle 
which  the  ogre  behind  the  bars  shook  out  into  a 
gown  of  some  dark  stuff,  glanced  at  disapprov 
ingly,  refolded,  and  passed  back  to  her  with  a  sad 
shake  of  the  head.  She  had  probably  named  a 
sum  that  did  not  appeal  to  his  sense  of  what  was 
businesslike  ;  and  she  now  said  something  else  in 
a  choked  voice,  in  reply  to  which  he  once  more 
took  in  the  garment,  and  gave  her  in  return  a 
ticket,  with  a  small  coin.  A  wing  of  the  little 
stall  where  she  stood  had  concealed  her  face  from 
me  while  she  was  transacting  her  sorrowful  busi 
ness,  but  I  had  a  full  look  at  it  as  she  went  out, 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     127 

and  so  pinched  with  penury  and  wrung  with  dis 
tress  did  it  appear,  that  a  horribly  miserable  and 
remorseful  feeling  clutched  at  my  vitals,  as  if  I 
were  somehow  implicated  in  her  calamity,  and 
ought  to  put  into  her  hand  the  two  or  three  shil 
lings  (whatever  the  sum  may  have  been)  that  I 
had  received  for  the  flute.  I  should  have  been 
happier  if  I  had  done  so.  I  was  young,  stout 
hearted,  patient  with  ill  fortune,  if  not  quite  defi 
ant  of  it,  and  sustained  by  the  certainty  that  my 
need  was  as  temporary  as  it  was  trivial ;  while 
hers,  as  I  fancied,  was  a  long-drawn  desolation 
that  only  death  could  end.  Her  image  haunted 
me,  and  for  many  days  and  nights  I  could  never 
pass  a  pawnbroker's  sign  without  feeling  that 
clutch  at  my  heart. 

The  band  concert  I  have  spoken  of  should  also 
be  enumerated  among  the  advantages  of  my  Per- 
rault  lodging.  Opposite  my  room,  but  a  block  or 
two  farther  down  Broadway,  was  the  Cafe"  des 
Mille  Colonnes,  a  brilliant  house  of  entertainment, 
with  a  balcony  on  which  an  orchestra  used  to  play, 
on  summer  evenings,  the  popular  airs  of  the 
period,  to  which  I  listened  many  a  lonely  hour,  sit 
ting  by  the  window  of  my  unlighted  chamber, 
"  thinking  —  thinking  —  thinking  !  "  The  throngs 
of  pedestrians  mingled  below,  moving  (marvelous 
to  conceive)  each  to  his  or  her  "  separate  business 


128  MY   OWN   STORY 

and  desire ; "  the  omnibuses  and  carriages  rumbled 
and  rattled  past ;  while,  over  all,  those  strains  of 
sonorous  brass  built  their  bridge  of  music,  from 
the  high  cafe  balcony  to  my  still  higher  window 
ledge,  spanning  joy  and  woe,  sin  and  sorrow,  past 
and  future,  all  the  mysteries  of  the  dark  river  of 
life.  Night  after  night  were  played  the  same 
pieces,  which  became  so  interwoven  with  the 
thoughts  of  my  solitary  hours,  with  all  my  hopes 
and  doubts,  longings  and  aspirations,  that  for  years 
afterward  I  could  never  hear  one  of  those  mellow, 
martial,  or  pensive  strains  without  being  immedi 
ately  transported  back  to  my  garret  and  my  crust. 


I  wonder  a  little  now  at  the  courage  I  kept  up, 
a  waif  (as  I  seemed  often  to  myself)  in  the  great, 
strange  city,  a  mere  atom  in  all  that  multitudinous 
human  existence.  I  do  not  remember  that,  even 
at  the  lowest  ebb  of  my  fortunes,  I  ever  once  lost 
faith  in  myself,  or  a  certain  philosophical  cheerful 
ness  that  enabled  me  then,  as  it  has  always  since, 
to  bear  uncomplainingly  my  share  of  rebuffs  and 
discouragements  ;  I  never  once  succumbed  to 
homesickness  or  thought  of  returning  to  my  fur 
rows.  I  have  only  grateful  recollections  of  those 
times  of  trial,  which  no  doubt  had  their  use  in 
tempering  my  too  shy  and  sensitive  nature,  and 
in  deepening  my  inward  resources. 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     129 

This  way  of  living  could  not  have  continued 
long  before  it  was  relieved  by  a  change  as  welcome 
as  it  was  unexpected.  Although  I  managed  some 
how  to  pay  my  room  rent  when  due,  the  Perraults 
must  have  suspected  my  impecuniosity,  for  their 
invitations  became  more  and  more  frequent,  until 
I  found  myself  dining  with  them  three  or  four 
times  a  week.  If  this  hospitality  had  meant  only 
social  enjoyment  and  a  solace  to  my  solitude,  it 
would  have  been  pure  satisfaction ;  but  it  had  for 
me,  moreover,  a  money-saving  significance  that 
touched  my  self-respect.  So  I  remarked  one  day, 
as  I  took  my  customary  seat  at  their  table,  that  I 
could  n't  keep  on  dining  with  them  so  often  unless 
they  would  consent  to  take  me  as  a  boarder.  Be 
fore  this  they  had  declared  that  they  would  not 
receive  a  boarder  for  any  consideration ;  I  had 
now,  however,  come  to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the 
family,  and  they  readily  acceded  to  my  proposal. 
One  of  the  family  I  then  indeed  became,  and  as 
intimate  a  part  of  their  French  menage  as  I  had 
been  of  the  English  household  in  Jersey  City. 

It  was  a  rather  rash  arrangement  on  my  part,  for 
the  terms  agreed  upon,  though  moderate  enough 
in  view  of  the  more  generous  way  of  living,  made 
my  weekly  expenses  nearly  double  what  they  had 
been  at  Dr.  Child's  or  in  Duane  Street,  and  this 
at  a  time  when  I  had  only  a  vague  notion  as  to 


i3o  MY    OWN    STORY 

how  I  was  to  meet  them.  That  my  horror  of  debt 
should  have  permitted  me  to  rush  into  this  indis 
cretion  is  something  I  can  hardly  explain.  Circum 
stance  led  me  a  better  way  than  prudence  would 
have  approved ;  I  obeyed  one  of  those  impulses 
that  seem  often  to  be  in  the  private  counsels  of 
Providence,  and  are  wiser  than  wisdom.  I  had 
had  enough  of  the  restaurants,  and  bread  eaten  in 
secret  had  ceased  to  be  pleasant.  I  felt  no  com 
punctions  in  exchanging  those  useful  experiences 
for  French  cafe"  au  lait  and  French  cookery,  a 
more  regular  home  life,  and  daily  good  cheer. 

I  became  more  at  ease  in  my  mind  as  to  money 
obligations  ;  and  from  that  time  I  do  not  remem 
ber  to  have  had  much  difficulty  in  meeting  them. 
The  Perraults  trusted  me  implicitly,  and  were 
always  willing  to  await  my  convenience  when  my 
weekly  reckonings  fell  in  arrears.  Perrault  over 
flowed  with  good-fellowship,  and  with  a  vivacity 
akin  to  wit ;  and  Madame  had  but  one  serious 
fault, —  that  which  accounted  for  her  too  rubicund 
complexion.  Quite  too  often,  after  the  midday 
lunch,  poor  little  Raphael  was  sent  downstairs  with 
her  empty  bottle,  to  be  filled  at  the  wineshop  be 
low  with  something  more  ardent  than  Bordeaux 
or  Burgundy.  I  was  fain  to  go  out  when  I  saw 
the  cognac  come  in,  to  take  its  place  beside  snuff 
box  and  tumbler,  on  her  sitting-room  table ;  but 


FIRST  EXPERIENCES   AS   A  WRITER     131 

would  sometimes  be  persuaded  to  sit  with  her 
while  she  sipped  and  talked,  and  took  snuff  and 
grew  drowsy,  and  then  perhaps  in  the  midst  of  a 
sentence  dropped  asleep  in  her  chair,  to  awaken 
not  seldom  in  an  ill  temper  that  vented  itself  on 
poor  little  Raphael  if  he  chanced  to  be  near.  At 
other  times  she  would  be  as  indulgently  good  to 
him  as  became  a  mother  ;  and  me  she  always 
treated  with  the  utmost  courtesy  and  kindness. 
I  never  had  a  word  of  disagreement  with  her  save 
on  a  single  topic ;  in  the  discussion  of  which  she 
herself  unconsciously  presented  a  living  argument 
on  my  side,  —  an  argument,  however,  that  I  could 
not  with  propriety  adduce.  I  would  never  unite 
with  her  in  lowering  the  contents  of  the  bottle. 

XI 

Meanwhile  I  was  enjoying  increased  facilities 
for  acquiring  a  colloquial  familiarity  with  the 
French  language.  When  I  entered  the  house  I 
could  read  and  translate  it  readily  enough,  and 
I  had  gained  a  good  accent  from  my  French- 
Canadian  teacher  in  Lockport ;  but  I  spoke  it 
stiffly  and  bookishly,  and  it  was  difficult  for  me  to 
follow  a  rapid  and  careless  enunciation.  In  a  com 
pany  of  French-speaking  people  I  would  lose  a 
large  part  of  the  conversation  that  was  not  ad 
dressed  directly  to  me.  But  I  was  passing  happily 


i3 2  MY  OWN   STORY 

through  that  transitional  stage,  and  getting  a  prac 
tical  use  of  the  language  that  was  to  be  of  ines 
timable  value  to  me  all  my  life.  I  may  add  here 
my  belief  that  in  no  other  language  is  the  disad 
vantage  so  great  of  having  first  learned  it  by  the 
eye  only,  and  not  by  the  ear  ;  often  in  such  a  case 
the  ear  never  quite  catches  up  with  the  eye  in 
understanding  it. 

I  was  so  well  satisfied  with  my  later  domestic 
arrangements  that  I  rested  in  the  comfortable 
feeling  that  they  would  continue  indefinitely. 
But  they  were  to  be  suddenly  interrupted. 

I  had  been  with  the  Perraults  only  about  five 
months  as  a  lodger,  and  the  latter  half  of  that 
time  as  a  boarder,  when  another  of  those  circum 
stances  that  override  our  plans  took  me  away  from 
them  and  from  the  city.  In  August  of  that  year, 
1848,  —  fifteen  months  after  landing  on  the  pier, 
early  that  May  morning,  from  the  North  River 
boat,  —  by  the  advice  of  a  literary  acquaintance  I 
made  a  trip  to  Boston,  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of 
securing  new  vehicles  for  my  tales  and  sketches, 
in  the  periodical  press  outside  of  New  York.  My 
cheery  "  Au  revoir ! "  to  my  French  host  and 
hostess  proved  to  be  a  final  farewell.  I  found 
the  latitude  of  Boston  so  hospitable  to  those  light 
literary  ventures  that  I  prolonged  my  stay,  and 
what  was  at  first  intended  as  a  visit  became  a 
permanent  residence. 


FIRST   EXPERIENCES  AS   A  WRITER     133 

Thus  ended,  before  I  was  yet  twenty-one,  the 
New  York  episode  of  my  youth.  I  had  not  ac 
complished  what  I  secretly  hoped  to  do,  I  had 
passed  through  trials  and  humiliations,  and  tasted 
the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 
But  I  had  come  out  of  the  ordeal  with  courage  and 
purpose  undiminished,  a  heart  unscathed  by  temp 
tation  and  unembittered  by  disappointment.  My 
first  stumbling  steps  were  no  doubt  better  for  my 
discipline  and  right  progress  than  the  leap  I 
vaguely  aspired  to  make  at  the  outset.  It  is  well 
that  we  cannot  always  bend  the  world  to  our  will ; 
and  I  long  since  learned  to  be  thankful  that  no 
publisher  was  found  undiscerning  enough  to  print 
my  first  thin  volume  of  very  thin  verse. 


CHAPTER  IV 

EARLY  YEARS    IN    BOSTON 


"TAKE  me  to  a  good  boarding-place,"  I  said  to 
the  cabman  who  picked  me  up  on  my  arrival  in 
Boston  that  morning  in  August,  1848;  and  he 
set  me  down  at  No.  33  Brattle  Street,  in  an  ancient, 
unattractive  quarter  of  the  city.  Indeed,  all  that 
part  of  Boston  through  which  our  wheels  rattled 
over  the  rough  cobble-stone  pavements  impressed 
me  as  unattractive,  if  not  ancient ;  and  I  could  n't 
help  comparing  the  narrow,  crooked  streets,  into 
the  midst  of  which  I  was  whirled  and  dropped, 
with  Broadway,  which  my  windows  had  looked  out 
on  for  the  last  five  months,  and  to  which  I  had 
grown  strongly  attached. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said  to  myself  consolingly; 
"  I  shall  stay  here  only  a  couple  of  weeks." 

No.  33  was  near  the  lower  end  of  the  street, 
three  or  four  doors  from  the  Quincy  House,  which 
popular  hostelry  has  long  since  taken  in  that  and 
other  adjoining  brick  buildings  in  its  successive 
extensions.  Just  beyond  that  was  the  old  Brattle 


BRATTLE    STRKET   CHURCH 
Showing  cannon-ball 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON    135 

Street  Church,  which  had  quartered  a  British 
regiment  during  the  siege  of  Boston,  and  still 
showed  conspicuously,  imbedded  in  the  masonry 
over  the  door,  the  twenty-four  pound  iron  ball, 
from  a  rebel  cannon  at  Cambridge,  that  struck 
the  brick  front  the  night  before  the  evacuation. 

The  boarding-house  was  kept  by  Mrs.  Kit- 
tredge,  a  widow,  who  received  me  with  such  mo 
therly  kindness  and  made  me  so  comfortable 
that  I  felt  well  satisfied  to  pass  there  the  days  of 
my  exile  from  the  Perrault  manage  and  French 
cookery,  while  seeing  the  city  and  transacting  my 
business  with  the  editors.  The  longer  I  stayed 
in  Boston  the  better  I  liked  it.  I  quickly  discov 
ered  the  harbor  and  the  two  rivers  that  united  to 
form  it ;  the  Common,  like  a  patch  of  beautiful 
country  on  the  skirt  of  the  town,  and  the  Public 
Garden  beyond,  then  a  garden  only  in  name,  an 
unfilled  lower  level,  with  made  land  and  raised 
streets  on  three  sides,  and  a  broad  embankment 
on  the  fourth,  fronting  Charles  River,  and  fencing 
out  the  tides.  That  embankment  presented  an 
attractive  walk. 

I  found  the  Boston  weeklies  ready  to  accept 
about  everything  I  had  to  offer,  and  set  gleefully 
to  work  to  furnish  the  sort  of  contributions  most 
in  demand.  "  Stories,  give  us  stones  !  "  said  they 
all ;  and  stories  they  had  from  me  from  that  time 


136  MY   OWN    STORY 

forth.  The  pay  was  small,  indeed,  but  I  had  no 
longer  any  difficulty  in  getting  my  articles  pub 
lished.  The  most  flourishing  of  these  papers 
paid  its  writers  only  two  dollars  a  column,  or  one 
hundred  dollars  for  a  novelette  running  through 
ten  or  twelve  numbers.  Some  paid  only  half 
those  rates,  while  others  kept  to  "the  good  old 
rule,  the  simple  plan,"  of  paying  very  little,  or 
nothing  at  all,  relying  for  contributions  upon 
amateurs  who  were  not  only  eager  to  write  for  no 
thing,  but  who  aided  largely  in  the  support  of  at 
least  one  so-called  "magazine,"  by  interesting 
their  friends  to  subscribe  for  it,  or  to  buy  the 
issues  containing  their  articles. 

So  I  settled  down  for  the  fall  and  winter  in 
Boston,  and  with  deep  regret  wrote  to  the  Per- 
raults,  giving  up  the  room  they  had  retained  for 
me,  and  sending  for  such  effects  as  I  had  left  in 
their  keeping.  Thus  closed  my  twenty-first  year. 

II 

One  of  the  best  of  the  Boston  weeklies  of 
those  days  was  the  Olive  Branch,  a  semi-religious 
family  paper,  to  which  I  became  a  frequent  con 
tributor,  and  to  the  readers  of  which  I  became  so 
favorably  known  that  in  the  summer  following, 
1849,  I  was  invited  to  join  a  party  in  an  excursion 
to  Moosehead  Lake,  with  the  understanding  that 


EARLY  YEARS   IN   BOSTON  137 

I  was  to  write  for  that  paper  letters  descriptive  of 
the  region  visited,  then  in  the  heart  of  the  wilds 
of  Maine.  I  was  ever  ready  for  any  adventure, 
and  few  things  could  have  delighted  me  more 
than  the  prospect  of  this  one,  in  which  I  was  to 
see  strange  scenery,  with  agreeable  companions, 
and  find,  among  the  woods  and  waters  of  that  wil 
derness,  congenial  subjects  for  my  pen.  I  have 
quite  forgotten  to  what  steamboat,  or  stagecoach, 
or  hotel  interest  I  owed  this  privilege ;  it  was 
probably  a  combination  of  such  interests ;  for,  as 
I  remember,  I  had  no  fares  or  other  expenses  to 
pay  during  the  two  or  three  weeks  of  that  memo 
rable  journey. 

Among  my  fellow  travelers  there  were  two  of 
whom  I  cherish  an  affectionate  remembrance. 
These  were  old  Father  Taylor,  the  pulpit  orator, 
and  Mrs.  Taylor.  He  was  then  in  the  meridian 
of  his  powers,  one  of  Boston's  celebrities,  and  a 
striking  personality.  I  had  heard  him  preach  at 
the, Seaman's  Bethel,  not  because  I  cared  much  for 
preachers  and  sermons,  —  not  having  then  recov 
ered  from  the  aversion  to  them  with  which  my 
early  experience  had  inspired  me,  —  but  because 
nobody  in  those  days  could  be  said  to  have  seen 
Boston  who  had  not  seen  and  heard  Father  Tay 
lor.  His  sermons  were  never  learned  or  dog 
matic,  but  wonderfully  earnest  and  direct,  often 


138  MY  OWN   STORY 

illustrated  by  quaint  nautical  metaphors  (he  had 
followed  the  sea  in  his  youth),  and  enforced  by  a 
"  terrible  gift  of  familiarity  "  that  brought  him 
heart  to  heart  with  his  hearers.  These  were 
largely  composed  of  men  from  the  wharves  and 
ships,  with  their  families  and  friends,  to  whom  he 
did  incalculable  good,  in  shaping  their  paths  to 
ward  sober  and  righteous  living. 

He  was  then  near  sixty  years  old,  but  his  seamed 
and  tawny  visage  made  him  appear  much  older  ; 
rather  short  of  stature,  but  active,  and  as  full  of 
enthusiasm  as  a  boy.  He  was  certainly  a  more 
ardent  fisherman  than  the  youngest  member  of 
the  party  ;  for,  as  I  recall,  when  our  little  Moose- 
head  steamboat  swung  around  under  the  stupen 
dous  overhanging  rock  of  Mt.  Kineo,  and,  having 
once  looked  up  in  awe  and  astonishment,  I  turned 
to  witness  the  effect  on  Father  Taylor,  I  beheld 
him,  not  gazing  upward  at  all,  but  down  at  the 
water,  with  rod  in  hand,  watching  his  line,  which 
he  had  flung  over  for  a  bite  as  soon  as  the  paddles 
were  still.  He  joined  in  the  camping-out  and 
moose-hunting  by  night,  and  was  as  eager  as  any 
of  us  to  get  a  shot  at  the  noble  game,  as  our  deftly 
paddled  canoes  glided  into  the  mouth  of  some 
stream,  and  we  heard  the  clash  of  boughs  where 
the  animals  crossed  or  came  to  drink,  but  never 
within  range  of  our  guns. 


EDWARD   T.    TAYLOR   (FATHER   TAYLOR) 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     139 

The  fame  of  the  great  preacher's  advent  went 
abroad  in  the  wilderness,  and  drew  a  large  con 
course  of  people  to  hear  him  when  he  preached 
from  the  deck  of  the  steamer  at  Greenville,  the 
Sunday  after  our  arrival.  "  It  seemed  "  (to  quote 
his  own  words)  "  as  if  God  had  shaken  the  woods 
and  hills  to  bring  his  people  together."  I  re 
mained  to  note  the  strange  audience  that  had 
gathered  from  nobody  appeared  to  know  where  — 
pioneer  settlers  and  wood-choppers,  hunters  and 
trappers  and  guides,  half-breeds  and  Indians, 
stage-drivers,  steamboat-men  and  tourists,  with 
many  women  and  children  ;  —  then,  having  heard 
enough  of  the  sermon  to  write  a  notice  of  it,  I 
stole  away  to  my  room  in  the  hotel  to  indite  my 
Olive  Branch  letter. 

It  was  known  to  the  members  of  our  party  that 
I  did  not  stay  through  the  services,  and  it  occa 
sioned  some  comment,  which  I  regretted,  fearing 
to  wound  my  venerable  friend,  not  in  his  minis 
terial  vanity,  if  he  had  any,  but  by  inspiring  in 
him  a  pious  concern  for  my  soul.  That  "con 
cern  "  was  a  subject  which,  in  my  boyhood,  I  had 
conceived  an  invincible  repugnance  to  hearing  dis 
cussed  ;  and  I  congratulated  myself  that  in  all  our 
daily  intercourse  since  we  left  Boston,  Father 
Taylor  had  never  once  inquired  whether  I  had 
met  with  a  change  of  heart.  He  would  probably 


i4o  MY  OWN   STORY 

now  infer  that  I  had  not.  That  Sunday  evening, 
after  I  had  finished  and  folded  my  letters,  a  rap 
came  upon  my  door,  and  I  could  hardly  have  told 
whether  I  was  pleased  or  disturbed,  as,  on  open 
ing  it,  I  met  the  genial  but  serious  countenance 
of  the  old  preacher. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  it 's  a  fine  evening, 
and  I  want  a  little  walk  and  talk  with  you.  Will 
you  come  ? " 

"  With  pleasure  !  "  I  responded  ;  and  it  was 
with  pleasure  indeed  that  I  strolled  and  conversed 
with  him,  during  the  summer  twilight  hour,  on  the 
wild  and  lonely  shore  of  the  lake.  He  inquired 
about  my  boyhood  and  my  life  in  Boston,  and 
talked  of  our  trip,  yet  never  once  edged  toward 
the  topic  I  dreaded  to  have  introduced.  At  last, 
as  we  were  returning  to  the  hotel,  he  said,  - 

"  Young  man,  there  's  one  thing  I  want  to  im 
press  upon  you.  There  's  nothing  like  being  pre 
pared."  He  paused  and  confronted  me,  with  the 
twilight  gleam  from  the  clear  sky  and  the  reflec 
tion  from  the  water  lighting  his  benign  counte 
nance,  furrowed  by  long  experience  of  the  world's 
sins  and  woes.  "We  are  enjoying  a  blessed  op 
portunity,  and  must  make  the  most  of  it.  We  are 
to  take  an  early  start  up  the  lake  in  the  morning, 
and  what  I  suggest  is  that  we  should  have  our 
fishing-tackle,  bait,  everything  needed  for  the 


EARLY   YEARS   IN   BOSTON  141 

day  s  sport,  on  board  the  steamboat  before  break 
fast." 

How  I  loved  the  dear  old  man  at  that  moment ! 

During  the  summer  my  mother  came  on  from 
Western  New  York  to  visit  me  in  Boston.  I  met 
her  in  Framingham,  my  father's  birthplace,  where 
we  had  relatives,  and  brought  her  back  with  me 
to  my  Brattle  Street  boarding-house.  I  had  re 
solved  not  to  go  home  until  I  was  assured  of  suc 
cess  in  my  chosen  vocation  ;  and  she  had  not  seen 
me  for  over  two  years.  It  had  been  my  habit  to 
send  her  everything  I  wrote,  and  to  keep  her  con 
stantly  informed  as  to  my  varying  fortunes,  so 
that  she  felt  but  little  concern  regarding  my  moral 
and  material  circumstances  ;  but  she  yearned  to 
behold  her  "  absent  child  "  once  more,  and  to  see 
with  her  own  eyes  how  he  was  living  and  the  kind 
of  company  he  kept.  She  appeared  contented 
with  me  in  every  respect,  except  that  she  wished 
I  would  go  to  church  more  regularly  and  "  write 
more  poetry."  She  stayed  with  me  a  few  days 
at  No.  33,  and  we  did  not  meet  again  for  another 
two  years. 

Ill 

Among  our  Brattle  Street  boarders  was  Charles 
Chadwick,  a  native  of  Nantucket,  who,  like  Father 
Taylor,  had  seen  much  of  the  world's  sins  and 


i42  MY   OWN   STORY 

woes,  but  from  a  different  moral  point  of  view. 
He  wore  a  blue  broadcloth  swallow-tail  coat,  with 
metal  buttons  (high  style  in  those  days),  and  was 
always  carefully  groomed,  from  his  blond  hair 
combed  sleekly  over  his  full,  low  forehead,  to  his 
well-polished  boots.  He  had  a  noticeable  stoop 
in  his  shoulders,  and  another  peculiarity  not  so 
noticeable,  but  which  I  discovered  when  I  helped 
him  off  with  his  boots,  on  a  memorable  occasion. 
There  was  only  bare  skin  visible  inside  of  them  ; 
he  had  never  worn  socks  since  he  ran  away  to  sea 
at  sixteen,  and,  he  assured  me,  he  never  had  cold 
feet.  He  was  extremely  social,  and  an  entertain 
ing  humorist  and  story-teller,  qualities  that  at 
tracted  me  from  the  first  ;  and  as  he  flattered  me 
with  his  attentions  (he  was  twice  my  age),  we  soon 
became  friends. 

He  called  himself  a  "ship-broker."  When  I 
asked  what  a  ship-broker  did,  he  told  me  he  was 
just  then  trying  to  sell,  for  its  owner,  an  old  brig- 
antine  that  had  once  been  "  turned  out  to  grass," 
but  which  had  latterly  been  repaired  and  fitted  up 
for  the  voyage  around  Cape  Horn ;  the  newly  de 
veloped  Calif ornia  " gold  craze"  having  produced 
a  scarcity  of  vessels  suitable  for  that  trip.  He  was 
asking  eleven  thousand  dollars  for  the  brigantine ; 
and,  as  he  further  informed  me,  if  he  found  a 
purchaser  at  that  price,  his  commission  would 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     143 

amount  to  eleven  hundred.  I  thought  it  would  n't 
take  many  such  sales  during  the  year  to  insure 
a  ship-broker,  of  no  very  extravagant  habits,  a  re 
spectable  livelihood. 

I  was  quite  astonished  therefore  when  he  one 
day  imparted  to  me  confidentially  the  fact  that  he 
was  temporarily  a  "  little  short,"  and  that  he  would 
be  ever  so  much  obliged  if  I  would  lend  him  fifty 
dollars  !  I  replied  that  I  had  n't  more  than  half 
that  sum  in  the  world.  I  was  getting  not  more 
than  one  or  two  short  articles  a  week  published 
and  paid  for ;  and  while  this  was  better  than  I 
had  been  doing  at  one  time,  my  expenditures  had 
proportionally  increased. 

By  no  means  discouraged,  he  replied :  "  It 's 
low  water  with  me  now,  and  twenty-five  will  tide 
me  over  a  few  days,  probably  until  I  can  close 
the  dicker  for  the  brigantine.  Fact  is,  my  board 
bill  is  in  the  doldrums,  and  I  've  got  to  raise  the 
wind  somehow ! " 

I  never  could  withstand  an  appeal  of  that  sort, 
and  after  some  demurring,  I  ended  by  doing  as  I 
had  done  in  the  case  of  my  earlier  friend,  Dr. 
Child  ;  I  gave  him  all  the  money  I  could  con 
veniently  get  together,  although  I  saw  no  advan 
tage  to  myself  in  the  transaction,  but  considerable 
risk.  It  seems  a  curious  circumstance  to  me  now, 
that  one  impecunious  as  I  often  was  should  have 


144  MY   OWN    STORY 

been  a  frequent  lender  of  small  sums,  but  never  a 
borrower.  These  sums  were  usually  repaid,  al 
though  I  recall  one  boon  companion,  who  held  a 
clerkship  in  the  office  of  the  collector  of  the  port, 
receiving  a  salary  amounting  to  three  times  my 
modest  income,  yet  who  was  chronically  "dead 
broke,"  and  was  always  borrowing  omnibus  fares 
and  other  trifles,  too  insignificant  ever  to  be  men 
tioned  again  between  friends.  Another  carried 
his  borrowing  practices  so  far  as  to  go  to  my  room 
in  my  absence,  and  help  himself  to  my  linen. 
When  he  said  to  me  once,  apologetically,  "  I  sup 
pose  you  were  surprised  that  I  didn't  return  that 
shirt  I  borrowed;"  I  replied,  "  Not  at  all ;  I  should 
have  been  surprised  if  you  had  returned  it."  After 
I  had  been  so  far  prospered  as  to  be  able  to  place 
a  small  deposit  in  a  savings-bank,  the  father  of  a 
family  once  besought  me  for  a  loan  of  sixty  dollars. 
When  I  told  him,  to  my  sincere  regret,  that  I  had 
no  such  sum  at  command,  he  made  answer  that 
his  quarter's  rent  was  due,  that  he  had  been  un 
able  to  collect  some  bills  he  had  relied  on  to  make 
up  the  needful  sum,  and  he  didn't  know  which 
way  to  turn,  if  I  could  n't  help  him. 

"  I  have  n't  it,"  I  repeated ;  "  but "  —  I  thought 
of  my  poor  little  savings-bank  deposit,  and  of  a 
family  man's  natural  distress  on  being  unable  to 
pay  his  rent  —  "I  might  possibly  raise  it  for  you." 


EARLY  YEARS   IN   BOSTON  145 

Although  I  knew  there  would  be  a  loss  of  ac 
cumulated  and  prospective  interest  if  I  withdrew 
my  money  from  the  bank,  and  I  could  not  think 
of  taking  interest  from  a  friend,  his  expressions  of 
gratitude  paid  me  in  advance  for  any  such  sacrifice. 
I  went  at  once  and  drew  the  sixty  dollars,  which 
I  handed  him  without  saying  how  I  had  come  by 
it.  Here  paid  me  in  a  week  or  two,  thanked  me 
warmly,  and  added  this  nai've  remark  :  — 

"  If  you  had  n't  lent  me  the  money,  I  should  have 
had  to  take  it  out  of  the  savings-bank,  and  have 
lost  the  interest." 

I  smiled,  and  held  my  peace.  There  are  plea- 
santer  experiences  than  to  have  one's  satisfaction 
in  a  friendly  act  dashed  by  the  discovery  that  one's 
good-nature  has  been  imposed  upon,  or  that  one 
has  been  too  weakly  obliging. 

IV 

Such,  however,  was  not  my  experience  with  the 
ship-broker.  I  loaned  him  more  money  when  I 
had  it,  and  was  useful  in  keeping  his  board  bills, 
at  least,  out  of  the  "  doldrums,"  until  he  came  to 
me  one  evening  in  my  room,  in  a  flush  of  excite 
ment.  The  dicker  for  the  brigantine  had  been 
closed,  the  money  paid  over,  and  he  had  got  his 
commission.  He  took  from  his  pocket  a  fat  roll 
of  banknotes,  counted  out  his  debt  to  me  on  my 


146  MY   OWN   STORY 

writing-table,  in  the  lamplight,  and  vowed  eternal 
gratitude  and  friendship  for  the  accommodation  ; 
with  more  effusion  of  speech  and  moisture  of  the 
eyes  than  seemed  to  me  quite  necessary,  or  befit 
ting  the  occasion.  In  my  innocence  I  deemed  the 
success  of  his  sale  sufficient  to  account  for  the  glow 
he  was  in  ;  but  I  did  not  yet  know  Chadwick. 

"  I  've  waited  an  unconscionable  while  for  this 
let-up,"  he  said,  "  and  now  we  're  going  to  cele 
brate  it."  What  he  really  said  was,  "  cerebrate  it ; " 
for  I  noticed  that  his  tongue  was  a  little  thick. 
"  Come  along  out !  "  and  he  clutched  me  by  the 
arm. 

When  I  asked  what  he  proposed  to  do,  he  said 
he  was  going  to  take  me  to  see  somebody  in 
"  Macbeth  ; "  but  that  we  had  time  to  "splice  the 
main  brace  "  first.  Then  the  truth  dawning  upon 
me,  I  remarked,  "  You  have  spliced  the  main  brace 
once  or  twice  already  !  " 

"  That 's  straight  as  a  handspike  !  "  he  admitted. 
"  I  've  kept  steady  as  a  Chinese  junk  for  over  two 
months,  and  now  it 's  time  to  shake  out  a  reef  or 
two."  He  used  nautical  metaphors,  especially 
when  he  was  "cerebrating,"  as  freely  as  old 
Father  Taylor  did  in  his  sermons,  but  to  a  dif 
ferent  purpose. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  persuade  him  either  to 
remain  with  me  or  to  go  directly  to  the  theatre, 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     147 

leaving  the  main  brace  without  further  splicing,  I 
accompanied  him,  very  reluctantly,  with  an  un 
quiet  feeling  that  he  was  to  be  taken  care  of  and 
brought  safely  home  ;  and  —  to  be  brief,  omitting 
details,  it  was  the  closing  incident  of  that  night's 
too  wild  and  lurid  experience,  that  the  absence  of 
socks  became  apparent,  on  the  pulling  off  of  his 
boots.  One  of  us  went  to  bed  sober,  but  that  one 
was  not  the  man  from  Nantucket.  He  had  had 
what  he  called  a  "cruise." 

Cruises  of  this  kind  were,  I  found,  periodic  with 
him,  though  of  not  very  frequent  occurrence.  I 
never  again  attempted  to  steer  his  course  in  one 
of  them,  or  to  bring  him  into  haven,  when  he  had 
his  "  three  sheets  in  the  wind."  It  was  undoubt 
edly  this  unfortunate  habit  that  had  separated 
him  from  his  family  (he  was  a  married  man),  and 
hindered  him  from  that  success  in  life  which  his 
talents  and  social  qualities  might  otherwise  have 
attained. 

It  did  not,  however,  hinder  him  from  following 
up  the  brigantine  business  with  another  venture 
of  a  maritime  character,  in  which  I  became  espe 
cially  interested.  He  found  a  moneyed  partner 
to  join  him  in  fitting  out  on  their  own  account  a 
vessel,  the  Minerva  Jones,  for  the  voyage  around 
the  Horn ;  he  avowed  his  intention  of  sailing  in 
her,  and  offered  me  a  free  passage  if  I  would  go 


148  MY  OWN   STORY 

with  him.  I  gladly  accepted,  believing  I  could 
do  well  by  writing  letters  for  the  Olive  Branch 
and  other  Boston  papers,  and  gain  a  useful  ex 
perience,  even  if  I  failed  to  make  a  fortune  in  the 
California  gold  fields.  I  have  often  wondered  what 
would  have  been  the  effect  on  me  and  my  literary 
work  if  I  had  gone  to  the  Pacific  Coast  at  that 
early  day. 

The  Minerva  Jones  was  advertised  for  freight 
and  passengers,  and  the  date  of  sailing  announced. 
I  shaped  all  my  plans  for  sailing  in  her,  looking 
forward  with  hope  and  glee  to  the  sea  voyage  and 
strange  adventures  in  a  new  land.  The  day  ar 
rived,  and  the  Minerva  Jones  still  lay  at  the 
wharf,  awaiting  freight  and  passengers  that  were 
for  some  reason  slow  in  occupying  her  hold  and 
berths.  There  were  repeated  postponements,  and 
I  remember  that  Chadwick  had  to  board  one  of 
his  passengers  for  some  weeks  at  a  hotel,  and  keep 
him  entertained,  in  order  not  to  lose  him  and  his 
merchandise,  which  had  already  been  got  aboard. 
When  at  last  the  Minerva  Jones  actually  swung 
off  into  the  stream,  I  had  engaged  in  another 
enterprise,  that  detained  me,  for  good  or  ill,  in 
Boston.  Thus  I  missed  my  chance  of  becoming 
a  "forty-niner." 

Chadwick  also  remained  behind,  but  went  to 
California  later ;  and  when  next  I  heard  from  him, 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     149 

through  a  friend  who  knew  him  in  San  Francisco, 
he  had  "  made  a  fortune  and  lost  it."  He  was  then 
past  sixty,  and  it  was  late  in  life  for  him  to  make 
another.  I  fear  it  was  thenceforward  "  low  water  " 
with  him,  and  that  all  the  voyage  of  his  life  was 

"  Bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries." 

But  there  is  a  tide  that  flows  at  last  for  all. 

Twenty -five  years  after  the  Minerva  Jones 
incident,  the  chief  actor  in  it  reappeared,  not  to 
my  outward  eyes  but  to  my  inward  consciousness, 
and  became  a  vivid  presence,  while  I  sketched  his 
sometimes  too  vivacious  and  convivial  traits  in  the 
minor  novel,  Fast  Friends.  I  described  a  few  of 
his  actual  jocosities  and  improvidences  and  in 
vented  others  in  keeping,  shifting  the  scene  from 
our  "  No.  33  "  to  my  old  Duane  Street  boarding- 
place  in  New  York.  In  writing  fiction  I  could  never 
hold  back  my  fancy  from  expanding  and  idealizing 
a  character  taken  from  life ;  and  in  the  develop 
ment  of  this  story  Manton,  put  on  the  easel  for 
Chadwick,  became  a  suggestion  rather  than  a  por 
trait. 

V 

The  enterprise  that  kept  me  in  Boston  was  a 
new  weekly  paper,  for  which  two  other  parties 
furnished  the  capital  and  I  (as  they  were  pleased 
to  term  it)  the  "brains."  For  reasons  of  policy 


i  So  MY  OWN    STORY 

they  preferred  to  be  "  silent  partners  "  as  far  as 
the  use  of  their  names  was  concerned.  One  was 
interested  in  another  publication  of  which  the  new 
paper  was  to  be  in  some  sense  a  rival.  The  third 
party  was  Hotchkiss  &  Co.,  newsdealers,  who 
could  not  give  their  imprint  to  the  new  sheet 
without  danger  of  prejudicing  the  proprietors  of 
numerous  other  publications  sold  over  their  coun 
ters.  So  it  was  determined  to  issue  the  paper 
under  the  firm  name  of  "  J.  T.  Trowbridge  &  Co." 
I  remonstrated  strongly  against  this,  not  only  on 
account  of  my  youth  and  inexperience  (I  was  then 
barely  twenty-two),  but  because  I  aspired  to  be 
known  solely  as  a  writer.  However,  as  I  could 
still  keep  my  nom  de  plume  unspotted  from  the 
world  of  business,  I  suffered  my  judgment  —  and 
I  can  truly  add,  my  modesty  —  to  be  overruled. 
As  an  equal  partner  I  was  to  be  entitled  to  one 
third  of  the  profits  when  there  were  any ;  mean 
while  I  was  to  draw  a  small  salary,  sufficient  for 
my  living  expenses,  on  account  of  my  editorial 
work,  and  receive  additional  pay  for  such  tales  and 
sketches  as  I  chose  to  contribute.  The  name  of 
the  new  weekly  was  The  Yankee  Nation,  a  title 
not  of  my  choosing. 

I  found  in  my  new  position  other  advantages  than 
the  one  my  friends  were  inclined  to  joke  me  about, 
— that  of  always  having  my  contributions  accepted. 


J.  T.    TROWBRIDGE 

A  t  the  age  of  21 


EARLY  YEARS  IN   BOSTON  151 

It  afforded  me,  indeed,  an  independence  of  the 
whims  of  editors,  and  made  me  one  of  the  judges 
on  the  bench  before  which  I  had  hitherto  appeared 
only  in  the  crowd  of  clients  more  or  less  humble. 
It  gave  me  free  access  to  concert  halls  and  thea 
tres,  and  I  was  surprised  and  flattered  when  some 
of  the  great  publishing  houses  began  to  send  me 
their  books  for  notice,  and  to  quote  The  Yankee 
Nation  as  authority  in  advertising  them.  Better 
than  all  this,  I  had  steady  employment ;  while  in 
the  use  of  the  office  pastepot  and  scissors,  and  in 
reading  manuscripts  and  proofs  and  conferring 
with  contributors,  I  experienced  at  least  partial 
relief  from  the  hot-house  process  of  forcing  the 
imagination  for  ideas,  to  which  the  writer  must 
often  subject  himself  who  depends  fora  livelihood 
solely  upon  his  pen.  I  still  wrote  a  great  deal, 
however ;  altogether  too  much  for  my  own  good, 
I  am  sure,  and  probably  for  the  paper's  ;  being 
always  ready  to  supply  a  story,  long  or  short,  or 
to  fill  space  for  which  no  fit  contribution  was 
offered.  What  I  wrote  must  have  been  often 
very  poor  indeed,  but  to  my  mind  now,  as  I  look 
back,  the  marvel  is  that  it  was  no  worse. 

I  formed  a  pleasant  acquaintance  with  contribu 
tors  and  friendly  relations  with  a  few.  I  was  care 
ful  never  to  treat  anybody  with  the  coldness  and 
curtness  with  which  I  had  often  been  treated  by 


iS2  MY   OWN   STORY 

editors  ;  while,  young  as  I  was  in  appearance  and 
in  years,  there  seemed  small  danger  of  my  over 
awing  the  humblest,  as  I  had  been  overawed. 
Nevertheless,  I  was  sometimes  embarrassed  by 
the  robes  of  imputed  dignity  that  invested  my  boy 
ishness  in  the  editorial  chair.  I  recall  an  instance 
which  a  ghastly  subsequent  circumstance  im 
pressed  on  my  memory. 

VI 

I  had  hardly  had  time  to  adjust  myself  to  the 
novelty  of  my  situation,  when  one  morning  in  the 
latter  part  of  November,  1849,  a  spare,  thin-shoul 
dered,  very  plainly  dressed  old  gentleman  entered 
the  office  to  see  about  getting  into  the  paper  an 
article  that  had  been  left  with  me  a  short  time 
before.  It  was  not  his  own  composition,  but  a 
descriptive  letter  from  some  foreign  land,  written 
by  a  young  person  in  whom  he  was  interested.  It 
was  a  relief  to  learn  that  he  was  not  a  decayed 
author  in  need  of  earning  a  few  dollars,  as  his 
appearance  at  first  led  me  to  suspect.  When  I 
handed  the  manuscript  back  to  him,  expressing 
regret  that  I  could  n't  use  it,  he  remarked  depre- 
catingly  that  he  did  not  expect  to  receive  pay  for 
it,  even  intimating  that  he  would  be  willing  to  pay 
something  for  its  insertion.  As  I  could  not  ac 
cept  it  even  on  those  terms,  he  went  off  with  an 


EARLY   YEARS   IN   BOSTON           153 

air  of  disappointment,  having  spoken  all  the  while 
in  a  low  tone,  and  treated  me  with  a  deference 
that  mightily  amused  the  foreman  of  the  printing- 
room  who  witnessed  the  interview. 

"  Do  you  know  that  man  ? "  he  said  excitedly. 
"  He  could  buy  out  this  shop  and  every  other  news 
paper  on  the  street,  without  putting  his  hand  very 
deep  into  his  pocket  either !  "  He  went  on  to  say, 
"  That  is  Dr.  Parkman,  one  of  the  richest  men  and 
best-known  figures  in  Boston  ! "  and  he  laughed 
at  the  idea  of  his  coming  in  that  meek  manner  to 
ask  me  to  accept  a  manuscript. 

I  was  surprised,  but  should  probably  have  never 
thought  again  of  the  incident  but  for  the  shocking 
circumstance  already  alluded  to. 

Dr.  George  Parkman  was  a  retired  physician, 
brother  of  Dr.  Francis  Parkman,  the  eminent 
Unitarian  divine,  and  uncle  of  the  younger  Fran 
cis,  the  future  historian,  who  was  to  make  the 
name  illustrious.  The  old  doctor  was  reputed 
eccentric  and  close  in  his  dealings,  yet  he  was  a 
philanthropist  in  his  way  ;  it  was  he  who  gave  the 
land  for  the  Harvard  Medical  College  in  Boston, 
and  he  had  published  a  treatise  on  insanity  and 
the  treatment  of  the  insane, — an  author,  after 
all,  though  not  of  the  class  I  at  first  surmised. 
This  venerable  citizen  went  out  from  my  office 
and,  that  day  or  the  next,  mysteriously  disap- 


154  MY   OWN   STORY 

peared,  —  so  soon,  in  fact,  after  our  interview  that 
I  fancied  I  must  have  been  one  of  the  last  persons 
who  saw  him  alive. 

The  sudden  and  unaccountable  vanishing,  in  an 
afternoon,  in  an  hour,  of  "  one  of  the  richest  men 
and  best-known  figures  in  Boston,"  was  the  won 
der  of  the  town,  until  that  feeling  was  changed 
to  amazement  and  horror  when  his  dissevered  and 
half-destroyed  remains  were  discovered  in  the 
laboratory  of  Professor  John  White  Webster,  of 
the  Medical  College.  Webster  had  an  amiable 
and  highly  esteemed  family  ;  he  was  a  professor 
of  chemistry,  a  writer  on  scientific  subjects,  and 
a  person  of  high  position  in  social  and  scientific 
circles.  He  was  arrested,  tried  for  the  murder, 
and  convicted.  When  it  was  too  late  he  made  a 
confession  that  might  have  lightened  the  gravamen 
of  the  charge  against  him  if  it  had  been  made  in 
time.  According  to  that  statement,  the  old  doc 
tor,  on  that  last  afternoon  of  his  life,  had  come  to 
the  professor's  office  to  collect  a  debt  about  which 
there  had  arisen  some  annoying  difficulties,  and 
by  his  overbearing  insistence  and  angry  denun 
ciations  had  provoked  from  Webster  a  fatal  blow. 
Instead  of  proclaiming  at  once  the  crime,  commit 
ted,  as  he  averred,  in  the  heat  of  passion,  Webster 
concealed  and  cut  up  the  body,  burned  portions 
in  the  furnace,  and  had  the  rest  in  hiding,  await- 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON    155 

ing  destruction,  when  he  was  exposed  by  the 
janitor.  Despite  all  the  influences  brought  to 
bear,  to  save  the  guilty  man  from  the  gallows  and 
his  innocent  family  from  their  involvement  in  the 
hideous  tragedy,  the  law  took  its  course,  and  he 
was  hanged  on  the  last  Friday  of  August,  1850. 
What  horror  and  misery  might  have  been  averted 
(I  used  to  think)  if  Dr.  George  Parkman  had  faced 
his  debtor  with  something  of  the  conciliatory 
meekness  with  which  he  approached  the  youth 
clothed  in  the  brief  authority  of  an  editor's  chair  ! 

VII 

The  authority  was  even  briefer  than  the  wearer 
of  it  had  reason  to  expect.  The  Yankee  Na 
tion  made  so  good  a  start,  and  kept  so  prosper 
ously  afloat  for  five  or  six  months,  that  Mr.  Isaac 
Crooker,  of  Hotchkiss  &  Co.,  who  had  been  its 
business  manager  from  the  outset,  determined  to 
devote  to  it  his  entire  attention,  and  withdrew  from 
that  firm  for  the  purpose.  He  took  the  paper  as 
his  share  of  the  firm's  assets,  and  bought  out  the 
third  partner,  thus  assuming  all  interests  except 
my  own.  He  was  a  genial  fellow  worker,  and  our 
mutual  relations  were  always  as  pleasant  as  pos 
sible  ;  my  satisfaction  in  the  new  arrangement 
having  but  one  serious  drawback,  Mr.  Crocker's 
uncertain  health.  He  had  a  consumptive  ten- 


156  MY   OWN   STORY 

dency,  which  after  another  half  year  or  so  became 
so  pronounced  that  his  physician  ordered  him  to 
leave  all  business  cares  behind  and  seek  a  more 
congenial  climate.  With  my  consent  he  turned 
over  his  two-thirds  interest  to  another  publisher, 
whose  main  object  in  acquiring  it  was,  as  it  proved, 
to  give  employment  to  a  relative,  a  retired  minis 
ter,  by  placing  him  in  the  editorial  chair.  As 
there  had  been  a  tacit  understanding  that  I  was  to 
keep  the  position,  this  was  an  unpleasant  surprise 
to  me.  I  had  become  accustomed  to  the  routine 
work,  and  liked  it,  and  was  looking  forward  to  an 
early  sharing  of  profits,  which  had  been  hitherto 
absorbed  in  the  expenses  attending  the  establish 
ment  of  a  new  publication.  But  as  I  held  only  a 
minority  of  the  stock,  I  submitted  to  the  inevit 
able  (I  could  always  do  that  with  a  stout  heart 
and  a  smiling  countenance),  and  walked  out  of  the 
office  with  my  few  personal  belongings  under  my 
arm,  cheerfully  giving  place  to  my  grave  and  rev 
erend  successor.  As  the  chief  merit  of  the  paper 
—  if  it  had  any  merit  at  all  —  was  the  vivacity 
the  abounding  good  spirits  of  its  youthful  editor 
infused  into  it,  and  as  that  quality  quickly  evapo 
rated  under  the  clerical  control,  it  failed  to  please 
its  old  patrons,  or  to  attract  new  ones ;  like  poor 
Crocker,  it  fell  into  a  decline,  and  hardly  survived 
him,  lingering  a  few  months  longer,  and  then  dis 
appearing  from  the  world's  eye. 


EARLY  YEARS   IN   BOSTON  157 

I  had  been  but  a  very  short  time  out  of  the  edi 
torial  office  when  my  friend  Ben  :  Perley  Poore 
(he  always  punctuated  his  praenomen  with  a  colon) 
accosted  me  one  day  on  the  street  in  this  wise  :  — • 

"  You  are  just  the  man  I  am  looking  for  !  The 
Fair  opens  to-day  "  (it  was  one  of  Boston's  early 
industrial  expositions),  "  and  I  am  starting  a  little 
sheet,  The  Mirror  of  the  Fair,  that  I  want  you  to 
take  charge  of." 

" '  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  '  ! "  I  ex 
claimed.  "  I  know  nothing  .about  the  Fair,  or 
anything  in  it." 

"  Go  in  and  see  it,"  he  replied,  "and  in  fifteen 
minutes  you  will  know  as  much  about  it  as  any 
body.  Write  two  or  three  short  articles  a  day  on 
any  subject  suggested  ;  then  brief  comments,  five 
or  ten  line  paragraphs,  about  the  most  curious  or 
interesting  things  you  find ;  having  our  advertisers 
in  mind,  first  and  always." 

This  was  the  substance  of  his  instructions,  and 
after  taking  me  into  the  Fair  and  introducing  me 
to  the  management,  he  left  me,  as  he  said,  "  to 
work  out  my  own  salvation."  I  seem  to  have 
worked  it  out  satisfactorily,  for  with  the  exception 
of  the  advertising  columns,  I  wrote  almost  the 
entire  contents  of  the  little  daily  Mirror  of  the 
Fair  as  long  as  there  was  any  Fair  to  mirror. 

Poore  was  at  that  time  publishing  his  American 


i58  MY  OWN   STORY 

Sentinel,  and  at  the  close  of  the  Fair  he  offered 
me  a  position  on  that  paper,  which  I  was  not  slow 
to  accept.  I  wrote  for  it  sketches  and  editorials, 
and  assisted  him  in  the  office,  taking  entire  edi 
torial  charge  of  the  paper  in  his  frequent  absences. 
It  was  during  his  absence  in  Washington,  early  in 
1851,  that  a  poor  little  innocent  article  of  mine, 
touching  satirically  upon  our  Northern  zeal  in 
slave-catching  and  Southern  threats  of  secession 
(burning  questions  then),  lost  it  many  subscribers, 
and,  I  fear,  hastened  its  demise. 

This  was  my  last  experience  as  an  editor  in 
those  years,  but  not  quite  my  last  opportunity. 
Some  time  after  the  Sentinel  incident  I  was  called 
upon  by  the  proprietor  of  a  Boston  daily,  who 
made  the  astonishing  proposal  that  I  should  be 
come  its  editor-in-chief.  Astonishing,  indeed,  for 
I  had  had  no  training  in  journalistic  work  of  the 
kind  that  would  be  required  of  me.  I  did  not  be 
lieve  myself  fitted  for  it,  and  wondered  that  any 
body  should  have  conceived  such  an  idea  of  my 
capabilities.  I  regarded  even  my  connection  with 
the  weekly  press  as  something  merely  temporary, 
all  my  aspirations  being  toward  some  more  dis 
tinctively  literary  occupation.  The  salary  offered 
(twice  what  I  could  hope  to  earn  by  my  pen)  was, 
I  confess,  a  staggering  temptation,  as  I  sat  for  a 
moment  gazing  into  the  face  of  my  visitor,  almost 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     159 

doubting  his  sanity;  but  I  put  it  promptly  and 
resolutely  behind  me.  I  might  have  pleaded  my 
youth,  my  natural  indolence,  my  self -distrust ; 
above  all,  my  insufficient  knowledge  of  men  and 
events.  I  merely  said,  "I  could  never  do  the 
necessary  night  work ;  my  eyes  would  not  permit 
it."  This  was  my  ostensible  reason  for  declining 
the  position ;  but,  behind  that,  an  inner  Voice, 
irrespective  of  all  reasons,  shaped  an  irrevocable 
No. 

In  fact,  I  engaged  in  no  other  editorial  work  of 
any  kind  until  Our  Young  Folks  was  started  in 

1865. 

VIII 

Some  interesting  events  marked  the  history  of 
Boston  in  those  early  years.  I  had  been  but  a  few 
weeks  in  the  city  when,  October  25,  1848,  the 
Cochituate  water  was  introduced.  There  was  a 
grand  procession  through  the  streets,  then  a  cele 
bration  on  the  slopes  of  the  Common  overlooking 
the  Frog  Pond.  An  ode,  written  for  the  occasion 
by  a  brilliant  young  poet  of  Cambridge,  James 
Russell  Lowell,  was  sung  by  an  immense  choir  of 
school  children,  and  there  were  appropriate  ad 
dresses,  setting  forth  the  benefits  of  the  new  water 
supply,  which  was  to  replace  the  antiquated  wells 
and  cisterns,  and  meet  the  needs  of  the  growing 
city  for  an  indefinite  future,  —  the  next  millen- 


160  MY  OWN   STORY 

nitim,  some  predicted.  After  so  much  impressive 
preparation,  Mayor  Quincy  smilingly  asked  if  it 
was  the  people's  will  that  the  water  should  be 
brought  in.  A  multitudinous,  jubilant  shout  went 
up,  as  if  it  had  been  meant  to  reach  the  moon. 
The  mayor's  hand  waved,  cannon  thundered,  all 
the  bells  of  the  city  clanged.  As  if  roused  by 
the  summons,  a  lion-like  head  of  tawny-maned 
water  pushed  up  through  the  fountain's  collar, 
seemed  to  hesitate  a  moment  at  the  amazing  spec 
tacle  of  human  faces,  then  reared  and  towered,  in 
a  mighty  column  eighty  feet  in  height,  and  shook 
out  its  tumbling  yellow  locks  in  the  sunset  glow. 
The  flow,  turbid  at  first,  gradually  cleared,  chan 
ging  from  dull  gold  to  glittering  silver,  and  the 
great  concourse  of  citizens  broke  up,  with  counte 
nances  illumined  as  if  shone  upon  by  a  miracle  : 
even  the  prophets  of  evil,  the  doubters  and  fault 
finders  of  the  day,  hardly  foreseeing  in  how  few 
years  Boston  would  be  clamoring  for  a  more  abun 
dant  water  supply ! 

As  I  look  back  now,  I  cannot  help  wondering 
how  many  of  those  citizens  yet  live  and  recall  the 
wild  enthusiasm  of  the  hour.  Where  are  the 
happy  school  children  who  sang  ?  Who  of  them 
survive,  old  men  and  women  now,  to  tell  the  tale  ? 
Boston  has  since  had  another  Mayor  Quincy, 
grandson  of  him  whose  upraised  hand  set  the  guns 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     161 

and  bells  dinning  and  the  water  spouting.  The 
chief  water  commissioner  was  Nathan  Hale,  one 
of  Boston's  foremost  citizens  ;  since  when,  a  son 
of  his,  then  an  obscure  young  country  minister, 
has  shaped  for  himself  a  long  and  useful  and  dis 
tinguished  career.  The  Cambridge  poet,  writer  of 
the  not  over-successful  ode  (too  long  and  too  full 
of  subtle  and  even  learned  allusion  for  the  occa 
sion,  with  some  unsingable  lines),  has  more  than 
fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  prime,  and  passed  on, 
leaving  a  name  high  among  the  illustrious  of  the 
age. 

The  new  fountain,  in  its  varied  forms,  became 
the  Common's  chief  attraction,  adding  the  one 
needed  charm  of  soaring  and  plashing  water  to 
that  green  pleasure  ground.  The  surrounding 
slopes  and  malls  were  long  my  daily  and  nightly 
haunt.  There  I  found  solace  for  my  continued 
exile  from  the  country,  and,  especially  on  summer 
evenings,  indulged  my  love  of  lonely  reverie. 

IX 

In  the  last  weeks  of  September,  1850,  came 
Jenny  Lind.  The  avant-courier  of  tempestuous 
excitement  attending  her  visit  made  itself  felt  at 
the  auction  sale  of  seats  that  took  place  two  or 
three  days  before  the  first  concert.  That  morning 
I  met  on  the  street  an  acquaintance,  who  told  me 


1 62  MY  OWN   STORY 

he  was  going  to  attend  the  sale  "  just  out  of  curi 
osity,"  and  asked  me  to  accompany  him.  I  like 
wise  had  some  curiosity  to  gratify  ;  the  auction 
sale  of  seats  for  the  Swedish  Nightingale's  first 
concert  in  New  York  having  produced,  on  a 
smaller  scale,  as  lively  a  sensation  as  her  singing. 
The  first  choice  of  seats  for  that  first  night  had 
brought,  over  and  above  the  regular  price  of  tick 
ets,  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars ;  the 
purchaser  being  neither  a  musical  enthusiast  nor 
a  millionaire,  but  a  man  of  business,  Genin,  the 
hatter.  He  had  been  shrewd  enough  to  foresee 
the  value  of  such  an  advertisement,  which,  Bar- 
num  tells  us  in  his  autobiography,  "laid  the  foun 
dation  of  his  fortune,"  Genin  hats,  already  in 
fashion,  soon  becoming  the  vogue  in  all  the  great 
Eastern  cities. 

Tremont  Temple,  in  which  the  auction  was 
held,  was  filling  rapidly  as  we  entered  ;  a  remark 
able  gathering  of  business  men,  newspaper  men, 
speculators,  musicians,  persons  of  leisure  of  all 
sorts. 

The  bids  for  the  first  ticket  began  high,  —  $50 
or  $75>  —  and  they  were  running  up  in  quick 
jumps,  when  my  companion  said  to  me,  "  Hold 
my  hat,  Trowmridge  !  "  (he  had  a  way  of  talking 
through  his  nose),  stepped  up  on  the  seat  beside 
me,  and  put  in  a  bid  that  distanced  all  the  rest,  — 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON    163 

"  Two  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  !  "  He 
had  begun  where  Genin  left  off. 

After  that  the  bids  mounted  by  fifty  and  twenty- 
five  dollar  leaps,  the  owner  of  the  hat  I  held  lead 
ing  all  competitors  :  "  Four  hundred  —  four  hun 
dred  and  fifty  —  five  hundred  —  five  hundred 
twenty-five  "  — to  my  utter  amazement.  I  pulled 
his  coat-tail,  whispering  hoarsely,  "  You  're  crazy  ! 
you  're  crazy,  man!  "  but  he  gave  no  heed  to  any 
other  voice  crying  in  that  wilderness  than  those 
of  the  auctioneer  and  of  the  one  rival  bidder  who 
followed  him  beyond  the  five  hundred  mark. 

"  Six  hundred  !  "  That,  after  some  hesitation, 
was  the  competitor's  last  call. 

"  Six  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars !  "  the 
owner  of  the  hat  responded  instantly,  and  stood 
calmly  erect  and  expectant,  until  the  first  choice 
was  knocked  down  to  him  at  that  price,  amid  up 
roarious  applause.  Then  he  smilingly  reached 
down  for  his  hat,  waved  it,  bowing  to  the  specta 
tors  as  they  continued  to  cheer  him,  and  resumed 
his  seat.  The  next  choice  brought  a  premium  of 
only  $20,  and  the  climax  of  excitement  was  over. 

"  You  thought  I  was  crazy  !  "  said  the  purchaser 
of  the  first  ticket,  as  we  walked  away  from  the 
Temple  together.  "  What 's  your  opinion  now  ?  " 

I  had  had  time  to  think  it  over,  and  I  admitted 
that,  if  the  first  Jenny  Lind  ticket  in  New  York 


1 64  MY   OWN   STORY 

was  worth  $225  to  an  advertising  hatter,  the  first 
Boston  ticket  might  be  worth  $625  to  a  man  of 
his  profession. 

The  purchaser  of  this  ticket  was  Ossian  E. 
Dodge,  a  singer  of  comic  songs  and  a  giver  of  en 
tertainments  in  which  he  was  the  sole  performer. 
His  comic  power  consisted  largely  in  grotesque 
grimaces,  and  the  feats  of  a  voice  that  could  go 
down  and  down  into  the  very  sepulchres  and  cata 
combs  of  basso  profundo,  until  the  hearer  won 
dered  in  what  ventriloquial  caverns  it  would  lose 
itself  and  become  a  ghost  of  sound.  He  called 
himself  a  song-writer  as  well  as  a  singer,  and  some 
of  the  published  songs  of  the  day  bore  the  unve- 
racious  inscription,  "  Words  and  music  by  Ossian 
E.  Dodge."  I  wrote  the  words  of  one  of  these, 
and  somebody  else  composed  the  music ;  and  I 
had  reason  to  believe  that  all  the  songs  he  claimed 
as  his  own  were  produced  in  this  vicarious  man 
ner.  I  may  add  that  they  were  probably  paid  for 
in  the  same  coin  he  dealt  out  to  me,  namely,  the 
"  ninepences  "  and  "  fourpences  "  of  New  England 
(the  shillings  and  sixpences  of  New  York  and 
other  States),  which  were  the  current  small 
change  of  those  days.  These  were  taken  in  at 
the  doors  of  his  concerts,  the  usual  price  of  ad 
mission  to  which  (before  Jenny  Lind's  advent) 
was  ninepence,  or  tvvelve-and-a-half  cents.  Two 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     165 

ninepences,  or  four  fourpences,  were,  nominally, 
worth  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  ;  but  as  they  were  sub 
ject  to  the  shrinkage  of  the  fractional  one-half  or 
one-quarter  cent,  when  paid  out  singly,  nobody 
liked  to  receive  them  in  any  quantities,  and  the 
banks  would  take  them  only  at  a  discount.  Dodge, 
however,  insisted  on  paying  his  small  debts  with 
them  ;  a  practice  which  I  recalled  when,  in  writ 
ing  Martin  Merrivale,  I  described  Killings,  in 
his  dealings  with  the  hero,  opening  a  leather 
pouch,  counting  out  forty  smooth-worn  fourpences, 
and  tendering  them  to  Martin  on  the  crown  of  his 
hat.  Killings,  I  here  confess,  was  frankly  in 
tended  as  a  portrait  of  Dodge,  whose  charlatan 
ism  and  love  of  notoriety  I  then  believed  (I  am 
not  quite  so  sure  now)  made  him  legitimate  game 
for  my  satire,  after  some  unfairness  in  his  treat 
ment  of  me  had  caused  a  rupture  between  us. 

The  sensational  purchase  of  the  $625  ticket 
conjoined  Dodge's  name  with  those  of  Jenny  Lind 
and  her  famous  manager,  in  temporary  publicity ; 
and  he  lost  no  time  in  taking  advantage  of  such 
advertising.  Very  soon  was  issued  a  well-exe 
cuted  lithograph  representing  P.  T.  Barnum,  solid, 
bland,  and  benignant,  in  the  act  of  introducing 
Mr.  Ossian  E.  Dodge,  smiling  and  elegant,  to 
Jenny  Lind,  adorably  gowned,  and  graciously 
bending,  with  her  eyes  modestly  downcast  at  the 


166  MY  OWN   STORY 

high-lights  on  Ossian's  boots.  This  picture,  ap 
propriately  framed,  was  exhibited  in  shop  windows 
all  over  the  city  and  in  the  suburbs,  and  it  pre 
ceded  the  comic  singer  wherever  his  concerts 
were  announced.  He  had  never  drawn  large 
audiences  in  Boston  ;  but  his  first  concert  there, 
after  the  Jenny  Lind  episode,  filled  Tremont 
Temple  to  its  utmost  capacity,  at  quadruple  the 
old  rates  of  admission,  and  reimbursed  him  in  a 
single  night  for  the  cost  of  the  ticket. 

X 

Jenny  Lind,  if  I  remember  rightly,  gave  four 
concerts  in  Tremont  Temple,  in  which  high  prices 
for  seats  were  maintained  ($3  to  $7,  plus  what 
ever  premium  they  would  command),  and  after 
wards  two  concerts,  at  what  were  called  popular 
prices,  in  the  immense  new  hall  over  the  then 
recently  constructed  Fitchburg  Railroad  station. 
I  heard  her  at  one  of  the  Tremont  Temple 
concerts,  and  again  at  the  first  Fitchburg  Hall 
concert,  where  a  disastrous  panic  was  so  narrowly 
averted. 

Anticipating  a  rush  on  the  last  occasion,  and 
having  invited  a  lady  friend  to  accompany  me,  I 
took  the  precaution  of  going  early  to  the  hall  that 
memorable  evening,  and  succeeded  in  getting  good 
seats  on  the  right  hand  side  (how  well  I  remem- 


167 

her  the  exact  position  !)  about  halfway  back  from 
the  stage.  Soon  the  uproar  began.  The  seats 
were  not  numbered,  and  the  auditorium  would  ac 
commodate  only  about  four  thousand  people,  while 
by  some  oversight  five  thousand  tickets  had  been 
sold.  As  the  throngs  came  pouring  in,  the  crowd 
ing  for  places,  the  eddying  and  recoiling  and  voci 
ferating,  became  frightful ;  and  a  double  danger 
threatened,  that  of  the  floor  giving  way  under  the 
enormous  weight  imposed  upon  it,  and  of  the  mul 
titude  destroying  itself  in  its  own  terror  and  frenzy. 
Even  after  the  disappointed  hundreds  who  could 
not  get  in  had  been  turned  away,  and  the  time 
had  passed  for  the  opening  of  the  concert,  the 
tumult  continued.  My  companion  was  frightened, 
and  entreated  me  to  take  her  out ;  and  I  became 
excited  in  trying  to  quell  the  excitement  of  others. 
The  orchestra  struck  up,  but  its  strains  were 
drowned  in  the  general  disturbance.  Somebody 
tried  to  address  the  audience,  half  of  whom  were 
on  their  feet,  while  everybody  seemed  to  be  cry 
ing,  "  Down  !  down  !  "  those  who  were  up  calling 
as  loudly  as  those  who  were  already  down.  Some 
pulled  down  those  who  were  standing  before 
them,  to  be  in  turn  pulled  down  by  those  behind. 
Then  on  the  stage  a  radiant  figure  appeared, 
serene,  but  with  bosom  visibly  heaving ;  and  a 
voice  of  uttermost  simple  purity  glided  forth  like 


i68  MY    OWN    STORY 

an  angel  of  light  on  the  stormy  waters,  stilling 
them  into  instant  calm. 

XI 

I  had  not  been  long  in  Boston  when  Theodore 
Parker's  growing  fame  —  or  infamy,  as  some  good 
haters  of  his  heresies  preferred  to  call  it  —  at 
tracted  me  on  Sunday  mornings  to  the  Melodeon, 
where  the  small  independent  society  over  which 
he  had  been  lately  installed  held  its  meetings. 

The  Melodeon  —  entered  from  Washington 
Street  just  below  the  site  of  the  present  Boston 
Theatre  —  was  a  popular  concert  and  exhibition 
hall,  where  the  very  beatings  of  the  pulse  of  New 
England  reforms  could  be  felt  and  measured. 
There,  notably,  the  old  time  anti-slavery  conven 
tions  hammered  away  at  that  amazing  futility, 
abolitionism,  abhorred  and  derided,  but  neverthe 
less  destined  to  prove  the  coulter  of  the  terrible 
war-driven  emancipation  plough.  There  one  could 
listen  to  the  uncompromising  Garrison,  whose  aim 
was  solely  to  convince,  and  not  to  charm ;  to  the 
eloquent  Phillips,  who  charmed  even  when  he  did 
not  convince  ;  to  the  brothers  Burleigh,  one  of 
whom  favored  a  fancied  resemblance  to  the  pic 
tures  of  Christ,  by  parting  his  hair  in  the  middle 
and  letting  it  fall  on  his  shoulders  in  wavy  folds  ; 
to  Frederick  Douglass,  a  natural  orator,  whose 


THEODORE    PARKER 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     169 

own  rise  from  slavery  was  the  most  powerful  of 
all  arguments  for  the  cause  he  advocated ;  to  Pills- 
bury,  Foster,  and  others  noted  or  notorious  in 
their  day,  women  as  well  as  men,  their  names  now 
remembered  only  in  connection  with  that  agita 
tion.  Parker  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  it ;  his 
exceptional  ability  and  position  as  a  preacher  gave 
him  more  than  a  local  reputation,  and  carried  the 
odium  of  his  name  as  far  as  those  of  Phillips  and 
Garrison  were  known  and  hated.  How  he  was 
regarded  in  South  Carolina  was  illustrated  by  an 
experience  a  Boston  merchant  once  had  at  Charles 
ton.  An  excited  crowd  gathering  around  the 
hotel  register  where  he  had  written  his  name 
observed  him  with  suspicious  whisperings  and 
threatening  looks,  which  became  alarming ;  when 
the  excited  landlord  stepped  up  to  him  and  said 
anxiously  :  "  Your  name  is  Parker  ?  "  "  That  is  my 
name,  sir."  "Theodore  Parker,  of  Boston?  the 
abolitionist  ?  "  "  Oh  no,  no,  sir  !  I  am  Theodore 
D.  Parker,  a  very  different  man  !  "  The  landlord 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  am  mighty  glad  to 
hear  it !  "  he  said.  "  And  allow  me  to  give  you 
a  bit  of  wholesome  advice.  When  you  are  regis 
tering  your  name  in  Southern  hotels,  write  the 
'D'  damned  plain  !" 

Parker  occasionally  spoke  at  antislavery  meet 
ings,  but  he  was  at  his  best  when  he  had  the 


1 70  MY   OWN   STORY 

Melodeon  platform  to  himself,  with  his  own  pecu 
liar  audience  before  him.  There  every  Sunday, 
morning  his  sturdy  figure  could  be  seen  standing 
behind  his  secular-looking  desk ;  no  orator,  rarely 
using  a  gesture,  entirely  free  from  the  conven 
tional  pulpit  tone  and  mannerism ;  reading  his 
hour-long  discourse  (lecture  rather  than  sermon) 
with  a  grinding  earnestness  well  suiting  his  direct 
appeals  to  the  reason  and  conscience  of  his  audi 
tors.  The  reading  might  at  times  have  seemed 
monotonous  but  for  the  refreshing  modernness  of 
his  topics,  and  the  illustrative  wit  and  fact  and 
logic  that  illuminated  them. 

I  was  at  first  repelled  by  the  occasional  merci- 
lessness  of  his  judgments  and  the  force  of  his 
invective ;  for  he  could  out-Garrison  Garrison  in 
his  denunciations  of  slaveholding  and  its  politi 
cal  and  clerical  supporters ;  and  even  while  he 
voiced  my  own  early  convictions  regarding  the 
theological  dogmas  in  the  gloom  of  which  I  had 
been  reared,  I  was  often  made  to  wince  by  the 
harshness  of  metaphor  he  applied  to  them. 

I  seem  to  have  got  well  over  this  sensitiveness 
by  the  time  his  congregation,  having  outgrown  the 
limits  of  the  Melodeon,  removed  to  the  then  new 
Music  Hall,  in  the  autumn  of  1852;  for  upon  that 
event  I  addressed  to  him  a  sonnet  that  opened 
with  these  lines  :  — 


EARLY   YEARS   IN   BOSTON  171 

Parker  !  who  wields  a  mighty  moral  sledge 
With  his  strong  arm  of  intellect ;  who  shakes 
The  dungeon-walls  of  error ;  grinds  and  breaks 

Its  chains  on  reason's  adamantine  ledge ; 

and  ended  with  — 

That  champion  of  the  right,  whose  fearless  deeds 
Proclaim  him  faithful  to  the  sacred  trust ; 

Truth,  crushed,  entombed,  but  newly  risen,  needs 
To  cleanse  her  temples  of  sepulchral  dust, 
Yea,  to  hurl  down  that  thing  of  rot  and  rust, 

That  skeleton  in  mail,  Religion  cased  in  creeds ! 

I  saw  no  harshness  of  metaphor  in  this,  nor  in 
deed  any  fault  except  that  the  last  line  was  an 
alexandrine.  But  the  editor  of  Boston's  favorite 
evening  paper  (of  whom  I  shall  have  more  to  say 
later),  to  whom  I  offered  it,  handed  it  back  to  me 
with  the  remark  :  "  I  suppose  you  are  aware  that 
these  sentiments  are  contrary  to  those  entertained 
by  nine  out  of  ten  of  our  readers  ?"  — instancing 
Parker's  offensive  radicalism  in  politics  and  reli 
gion.  I  said  I  was  pleased  to  know  that  that  was 
his  reason  for  not  printing  the  lines.  "  It  is  a  very 
good  editorial  reason,"  he  replied ;  and  we  parted 
amicably. 

In  response  to  my  mother's  frequently  ex 
pressed  wish  that  I  should  "  write  more  poetry  " 
and  go  oftener  to  meeting,  1  informed  her  in  a 
letter  about  this  time  that  I  occasionally  wrote 
verses,  and  that  I  went  frequently  to  hear  Rev. 


i72  MY   OWN   STORY 

Theodore  Parker,  —  writing  the  "Rev."  (as  the 
Charleston  landlord  would  have  said)  quite  plain. 
I  did  not  send  her  the  sonnet ;  and  I  left  her  to 
learn  from  a  good  uncle  of  mine  that  "  if  Theo 
dore  Parker  was  n't  doing  as  much  harm  in  the 
world  as  the  devil,  it  was  because  he  was  n't  so 
smart  as  the  devil ;  but  that  he  was  doing  as  much 
harm  as  he  knew  how."  She  believed  in  her  boy, 
however,  and  I  had  little  trouble  in  convincing 
her  that  with  all  his  faults  Parker  was  a  great 
and  brave  and  conscientious  man. 

I  did  not  get  my  sonnet  printed,  but  I  meant 
that  it  should  have  at  least  one  interested  reader, 
and  accordingly  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  Parker  him 
self.  It  called  out  from  him  a  kindly  appreciative 
letter,  and  brought  me  the  honor  of  his  acquaint 
ance.  This  ought  to  have  proved  a  very  great 
advantage  to  me ;  for  he  invited  me  to  come  and 
see  him,  showed  me  his  collection  of  rare  books  in 
the  different  languages  of  which  he  was  master, 
and  proffered  me  the  free  use  of  them,  either  to 
examine  there  in  his  library,  or  to  carry  away 
and  read  at  my  leisure.  "  Come  in  at  any  time," 
he  said,  "and  help  yourself;  don't  be  afraid  of 
intruding  upon  me.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,  if 
I  am  here ;  and  to  talk  with  you,  unless  I  happen 
to  have  a  pressing  task  in  hand."  He  encouraged 
me  to  talk  about  my  early  life  and  my  reasons  for 


EARLY  YEARS  IN  BOSTON     173 

leaving  home ;  and  used  me  as  an  illustration  of  a 
point  in  his  next  Sunday's  discourse,  quoting  my 
very  words,  when  he  alluded  to  the  country-bred 
youth  who  comes  to  the  city  "  because  he  aspires 
to  something  better  than  working  on  a  farm  at 
twelve  dollars  a  month ; "  to  me  a  curious  exem 
plification  of  his  habit  of  making  every  rill  of  ex 
perience  tributary  to  that  omnivorous  stream,  his 
weekly  sermon. 

His  generous  offer  of  his  library  appears  to  me 
now  as  surprising  as  my  failure  to  make  use  of  it 
was  unaccountable.  In  thanking  him  for  the 
enviable  privilege,  I  felt  sure  that  I  should  return 
in  a  day  or  two  and  enjoy  it.  Then  the  thought 
of  finding  him  at  his  desk,  writing  his  next  Sun 
day's  homily,  decided  me  to  wait  until  Monday ; 
then  for  some  reason  I  postponed  the  visit  another 
week;  then  —  then  —  in  short,  I  did  not  go  at  all! 
He  never  repeated  the  invitation,  and  I  let  so  long 
a  time  elapse  that  I  was  at  length  ashamed  to  re 
mind  him  of  it.  Thus  the  perverse  imp  of  diffi 
dence  and  irresolution  held  me  back  from  many 
advantages  in  life,  which  I  had  but  to  face  with 
simple  faith  and  courage,  lay  hold  of,  and  possess. 
I  recall  with  shame  another  instance  of  my  un 
fortunate  faint-heartedness  in  those  days.  When 
I  most  needed  such  a  friend  and  adviser,  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  meet  Mrs.  Stowe,  then  in  the 


174  MY  OWN    STORY 

dazzling  dawn  of  her  success  and  fame.  She 
treated  me  with  exceeding  kindness,  complimented 
something  I  had  written,  and  invited  me  to  visit 
her  in  Andover,  adding,  "  I  want  you  to  make  our 
house  one  of  your  homes."  I  remember  well  the 
words  and  the  winning  smile  with  which  they  were 
spoken.  Of  course  I  promised  to  go,  and  of  course 
I  never  went.  Long  afterwards  I  reminded  her 
of  that  gracious  invitation,  and  of  my  seemingly 
ungracious  treatment  of  it.  "  Foolish  boy !  "  she 
said ;  "  why  did  n't  you  come  ?  "  Foolish  boy 
indeed  ! 

The  discourses  of  Parker  were  a  moral  and  in 
tellectual  stimulus,  and  well  I  recall  the  tremen 
dous  temporary  effect  of  some  of  them,  — like  his 
sermon  on  Daniel  Webster ;  —  but  they  never  en 
tered  very  deeply  into  my  life.  Extreme  radical 
as  he  was  in  his  religious  and  reformatory  opin 
ions,  the  great  body  of  modern  thought  has  come 
so  nearly  abreast  with  him,  even  passing  in  some 
directions  beyond  him,  that  he  appears  a  moderate 
conservative  to  those  who  read  his  writings  to-day. 
Perhaps  his  influence  over  me  would  have  been 
stronger  if  it  had  not  been  early  eclipsed  by  that 
of  his  great  contemporary,  Emerson. 


HARRIET    HEECHER    STOWE 


CHAPTER  V 

FRIENDS    AND    FIRST   BOOKS 


I  BOARDED  at  No.  33  Brattle  Street  a  little  over 
a  year,  then  moved  to  more  attractive  and  commo 
dious  quarters  at  the  corner  (southeast)  of  Beach 
Street  and  Harrison  Avenue.  There  I  had  a  well- 
furnished  front  chamber,  where,  on  Sunday  after 
noons,  I  welcomed  a  few  friends,  who  soon  began 
bringing  their  friends,  so  that  before  long  I  had 
about  me  a  set  of  lively  companions,  all  older  than 
myself,  and  two  or  three  near  twice  my  age. 
There  were  two  retired  army  officers  who  had 
served  in  the  Mexican  war,  three  or  four  writers 
for  the  press,  a  sailor  who  had  had  as  many  adven 
tures  as  Sindbad,  and  others  of  varied  experiences. 
I  greatly  enjoyed  their  good  fellowship  ;  and  it 
was  solely  for  the  sake  of  hospitality  that  I  began 
to  keep  cigars  and  a  decanter  on  my  table.  Before 
long  I  found  myself  mixing  a  glass  when  I  sat 
down  to  write,  and  sipping  it  between  paragraphs. 
I  think  it  was  some  indiscretion  on  the  part  of  my 
guests,  one  or  two  of  whom  could  n't  withstand 
temptation,  that  awakened  in  me  a  consciousness 


176  MY  OWN   STORY 

that  I  was  forming  an  evil  habit  and  encouraging 
it  in  others.  That  consciousness  had  only  slum 
bered  all  along ;  and  when  it  was  finally  roused, 
resolution  to  change  my  way  of  life  was  roused 
with  it.  Accordingly,  after  I  had  been  about  a 
year  in  my  Beach  Street  quarters,  I  engaged  rooms 
in  a  small  and  very  quiet  place  leading  off  Tre- 
mont  Street,  not  far  above  the  Common.  I  took 
care  not  to  be  found  at  home  for  three  or  four 
Sunday  afternoons  after  my  removal,  and  thus 
managed  to  sift  out,  from  those  whose  friendship 
I  wished  to  retain,  my  less  desirable  associates. 

From  that  time  forth  I  never  took  any  sort  of 
stimulant  to  facilitate  composition.  Stimulants 
used  for  that  purpose  are  like  stones  let  fall  into 
a  fountain  to  create  an  overflow.  The  immediate 
effect  may  be  to  raise  the  water,  but  at  the  best 
they  merely  forestall  the  supply,  and,  even  if  they 
do  not  render  it  turbid,  they  often  choke  it  at  the 
source  while  appearing  temporarily  to  increase  it. 

Tobacco,  in  the  form  of  cigarettes  and  cigars,  I 
had  used  with  moderation  ever  since  I  came  to 
Boston  ;  but  as  I  was  now  becoming  intimate  in  a 
small  circle  where  even  the  taint  of  it  in  clothing 
was  unwelcome,  I  soon  gave  up  smoking  altogether. 
I  have  always  rejoiced  at  a  resolution  that  rid  me 
so  early  of  a  habit  which  might  otherwise  have  be 
come  inveterate. 


FRIENDS   AND    FIRST   BOOKS         177 

I  roomed  with  a  private  family  and  got  my 
meals  at  boarding-places  near  by  ;  for  one  while  at 
a  home  of  vegetarian  reformers,  where  I  lived  for 
an  entire  year  without  tasting  animal  food  or  miss 
ing  it ;  and  later  at  a  French  table  d'hote,  where 
I  went  back  to  French  conversation  and  French 
cookery.  In  that  retired  apartment  (No.  i  Seaver 
Place,  to  be  exact),  with  the  exception  of  summers 
spent  at  the  mountains  or  elsewhere,  or  in  travel, 
and  ten  months  in  Europe,  I  passed  the  next  eight 
years  of  my  life. 

II 

In  the  summer  of  1851  I  indulged  myself  in  a 
delightful  trip,  around  by  Lake  Champlain,  the  St. 
Lawrence,  and  Lake  Ontario,  to  Western  New 
York ;  spending  a  week  or  two  at  Niagara  Falls 
and  Lockport,  and  for  the  first  time  in  over  four 
years  revisiting  my  mother  and  brothers  in  the  old 
homestead.  There  was  much  joy  and  some  heart 
ache  in  seeing  again  the  well-known  Ogden  faces, 
in  living  over  in  memory  the  sports  and  hopes 
and  irksome  tasks  of  my  boyhood,  and  in  breaking 
open  the  golden-globed  peaches,  as  I  lay  on  the 
same  old  orchard  turf,  in  the  warm  September 
weather. 

Returning  to  Boston  and  my  new  quarters  in 
Seaver  Place,  early  in  the  autumn,  I  resumed  my 


178  MY  OWN   STORY 

sketch-writing,  and  gave  what  time  I  could  spare 
from  it  to  something  which  I  hoped  would  prove 
a  work  of  more  lasting  importance. 

It  had  long  been  my  ambition  to  publish  a  book, 
and  I  now  set  about  writing  a  novel,  to  which  I 
gave  my  spare  hours  all  the  rest  of  that  autumn 
and  the  following  winter. 

The  story  chiefly  concerned  two  Boston  families, 
one  recently  risen  to  wealth  and  social  pretension, 
the  other  aristocratic  and  decayed,  whose  relations 
with  each  other  gave  scope  for  some  good  dialogue 
and  delineation  of  character.  The  early  chapters 
were,  as  I  remember,  lively  enough  ;  but  I  had 
started  out  impulsively,  without  any  well-defined 
plan,  and,  what  was  worse,  without  any  interior 
knowledge  of  the  kind  of  life  I  was  attempting  to 
describe.  I  found  it  impossible  to  work  my  situa 
tions  up  to  a  climax ;  I  lost  my  interest  in  the 
task,  and  held  myself  to  it  by  mere  force  of  will, 
bringing  it  to  a  premature  conclusion,  while  it  was 
never,  in  fact,  properly  finished.  I  still  had  hope 
that  entertainment  enough  would  be  found  in  the 
story  to  redeem  it  from  utter  failure  :  but,  after  it 
had  been  successively  declined  by  two  or  three 
publishers,  I  began  to  take  their  view  of  it,  which 
confirmed  my  own  private  judgment,  and  smiled 
in  a  sickly  sort  of  way  when  one  of  my  friends, 
who  had  borrowed  it  to  read,  declared,  on  returning 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST  BOOKS         179 

it,  that  the  opening  chapters  were  as  good  as  those 
of  Vanity  Fair.  When  I  asked  about  the  con 
cluding  chapters,  he  said  he  "  did  n't  get  so  far 
as  those."  I  fear  nobody  ever  did.  He  was  sure 
he  could  find  a  publisher  for  it,  if  I  would  let  him  ; 
but  I  had  by  that  time  made  up  my  mind  that  it 
should  never  again  be  offered  for  publication,  un 
less  I  could  first  find  courage  to  rewrite  the  latter 
half.  That  courage  never  came. 

Ill 

One  of  the  Boston  weeklies  I  wrote  for  in  the 
early  fifties  was  The  Carpet  Bag,  to  which  I  was 
attracted  less  by  any  pecuniary  advantage  it  offered 
than  by  my  very  great  liking  for  the  man  who  gave 
it  whatever  character  and  reputation  it  enjoyed. 
This  was  Benjamin  Penhallow  Shillaber,  who  had 
begun  life  as  a  compositor,  and  while  setting  type 
in  the  office  of  The  Boston  Post  had  commenced 
printing  in  that  paper  his  quaint  sayings  of  "Mrs. 
Partington,"  so  widely  popular  in  their  day,  and 
now  so  nearly  forgotten.  He  had  a  large,  genial 
nature,  something  like  Walt  Whitman's,  but  with 
out  Whitman's  courage  and  immense  personal 
force,  and  with  nothing  of  his  genius ;  although 
Shillaber,  too,  was  a  poet  in  his  way,  writing  with 
great  facility  a  racy,  semi-humorous  verse,  speci 
mens  of  which  he  collected  in  a  volume,  Rhymes 


i8o  MY  OWN   STORY 

with  Reason  and  Without,  in  1853.  He  also  pub 
lished  The  Life  and  Sayings  of  Mrs.  Partington, 
with  the  proceeds  of  which  he  purchased  a  home 
in  Chelsea,  unfortunately  in  a  quarter  where  real 
estate  was  destined  to  decline  in  value.  Our  ac 
quaintance  began  in  1850,  and  ripened  quickly 
into  a  friendship  that  continued  as  long  as  he  lived, 
notwithstanding  a  divergence  in  our  political 
opinions,  —  a  divergence  that  became  very  wide 
indeed  when  men  of  the  North  had  to  choose  be 
tween  a  Union  dominated  by  slavery  and  resistance 
to  that  domination.  Even  at  the  time  of  Lincoln's 
second  election  there  was  a  modicum  of  truth  in 
what  I  said  to  him  jocularly,  that  I  believed  he 
would  vote  for  Jeff  Davis  if  Jeff  Davis  had  the 
regular  Democratic  nomination,  indorsed  by  The 
Boston  Post. 

Shillaber's  physical  proportions,  his  wit  and 
humor  and  amiable  social  qualities,  made  him  for 
many  years  a  notable  figure  in  Boston.  I  believe 
it  can  be  said  of  him  more  truly  than  of  any  other 
man  I  ever  knew  —  except  perhaps  one  I  shall 
have  much  to  say  of  farther  on  —  that  he  never 
made  an  enemy.  During  all  the  latter  part  of  his 
life  he  suffered  greatly  from  inherited  disease,  the 
gout ;  but  neither  persistent  pain  nor  enforced 
retirement  and  inactivity  could  ever  cloud  that 
cheerful,  optimistic  nature. 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST  BOOKS         181 

IV 

Working  at  the  printer's  case  in  The  Carpet  Bag 
office,  where  I  first  saw  him,  was  a  sandy-haired, 
thin-featured  youth,  with  a  long  nose  and  pale  com 
plexion,  known  as  Charley  Browne.  He  had  been 
brought  to  Boston,  from  Maine,  in  1851,  by  his 
uncle,  Dr.  Calvin  Farrar,  who  was  getting  a  pam 
phlet  printed,  to  advertise  a  water-cure  establish 
ment  he  had  at  Waterford,  and  who  offered  the 
job  to  the  printers  of  The  Carpet  Bag,  provided 
they  would  take  the  boy  with  it.  They  took  the 
job  and  the  boy  (then  aged  seventeen),  who  before 
he  was  much  older  began  to  write  mildly  funny 
things  for  the  paper  over  the  signature,  "  Lieuten 
ant  Chubb."  He  probably  chose  the  pseudonym 
Chubb  for  the  reason  that  he  himself  was  lank  ; 
just  as  he  may  have  claimed  to  have  learned  his 
trade  in  the  office  of  The  Skowhegan  Clarion,  be 
cause  of  the  oddity  of  the  name,  whereas  he  had 
really  come  from  another  town  in  Maine,  and  from 
the  office  of  a  paper  less  grotesquely  labeled.  His 
serious  countenance  veiled  a  spirit  of  original  and 
audacious  waggery  ;  and  he  was  even  then  known 
to  be  capable  of  the  same  conscientious  painstaking 
in  the  accomplishment  of  a  solemn  act  of  drollery 
as  when,  a  few  years  after,  while  on  a  lecturing- 
tour  in  midwinter,  occupying  with  a  friend  a  room 


i8a  MY  OWN   STORY 

of  arctic  temperature,  he  got  out  of  bed  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  to  hang  before  a  wind-shaken 
sash  a  "  skeleton "  hoopskirt  he  had  found  in  a 
closet,  remarking  shiveringly,  "  It  will  keep  out 
the  c-o-oarsest  of  the  c-o-old  !  "  From  Boston  he 
went  to  Cleveland,  where  Charley  Brown  of  The 
Carpet  Bag  became  Charles  F.  Browne  of  the 
Plaindealer,  and  Lieutenant  Chubb  developed 
into  Artemus  Ward. 


It  was  in  The  Carpet  Bag  office  that  I  first  met 
that  brilliant  young  Irishman,  Charles  Graham 
Halpine,  who  had  graduated  from  Trinity  Col 
lege,  Dublin,  at  seventeen,  become  a  journalist 
and  an  adventurer  soon  after,  and  was  Barnum's 
private  secretary  when  that  enterprising  showman 
brought  Jenny  Lind  to  Boston  in  the  autumn  of 
1850.  He  had  come  to  The  Carpet  Bag  office 
to  see  about  some  Jenny  Lind  advertising,  when 
he  announced  his  intention  of  quitting  Barnum 
("  B-b-barnum,"  he  called  him,  for  he  had  an 
engaging  hitch  in  his  speech)  and  of  settling 
down  in  Boston,  —  as  he  did,  upon  the  showman's 
departure.  He  took  an  office  in  Tremont  Row 
and  immediately  began  earning  a  good  income  by 
writing  advertisements  in  prose  and  rhyme,  and 
poems  and  paragraphs  for  the  press.  He  was 


CHARLES    F.    BROWN   (ARTEMUS  WARD) 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS        183 

a  little  above  the  medium  stature,  with  a  florid 
complexion,  superabundant  animal  spirits,  and 
a  maturity  of  mind  and  manner  astonishingly 
beyond  his  years,  then  barely  twenty-one. 

He  quickly  got  the  run  of  our  politics,  be 
came  a  Democrat  (as  I  believe  Irish-Americans 
mostly  do,  there  being  in  the  name  something 
alluring  to  haters  of  monarchy),  and  gained  a  local 
reputation  as  a  wit  and  satirist  in  the  columns  of 
The  Boston  Post,  then  in  its  golden  prime  under  the 
direction  of  its  founder,  Charles  Gordon  Greene. 
Like  Charles  Lamb,  Halpine  sometimes  made  his 
stammer  tributary  to  his  wit,  as  when,  upon  Mrs. 
Stowe's  going  abroad  in  1853,  on  a  supposed 
mission  to  collect  funds  for  the  anti-slavery  cause, 
he  nicknamed  her,  first  among  his  friends  and 
afterward  in  print,  "  Harriet  BeseecherBe  Stowe." 

He  conceived  an  ardent  attachment  for  Shilla- 
ber,  with  whom  he  associated  himself  in  the  man 
agement  of  The  Carpet  Bag.  He  and  I  had  our 
individual  literary  enthusiasms,  which  struck  out 
sparks  of  mutual  personal  interest  at  our  first  in 
terview  ;  with  us  acquaintance  and  intimacy  might 
almost  be  said  to  have  been  twin-born.  We  both 
had  good  memories  for  the  things  we  liked,  and 
vividly  I  recall  the  happy  evening  hours  we  spent, 
walking  up  and  down  the  slopes  of  the  Common, 
or  seated  on  a  bench  by  the  fountain,  reciting  to 


184  MY  OWN   STORY 

each  other  passages  from  our  favorite  poets.  It 
was  he  who  thus  introduced  me  to  Macaulay's 
Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  delivering  parts  or  the 
whole  of  more  than  one  (I  remember  especially 
Horatius)  in  a  measured,  solemn  chant  that  lapped 
me  in  the  elysium  of  a  new  sensation.  I  in  turn 
repeated,  among  other  things,  Poe's  Sleeper,— 
the  most  strikingly  beautiful  of  all  the  produc 
tions  of  that  aberrant  genius,  —  and  stanzas  from 
Mrs.  Browning's  Vision  of  Poets,  which  I  at  that 
time  prodigiously  admired,  but  find  almost  un- 
readably  diffuse  and  faulty  of  form  to-day.  Over 
all  the  intervening  years  I  hear  again  his  sharp 
exclamation  of  rapturous  astonishment  at  the 
lines,  — 

"  And  visionary  Coleridge,  who 
Did  sweep  his  thoughts,  as  angels  do 
Their  wings,  with  cadence  up  the  blue." 

Halpine's  Lyrics  by  the  Letter  H.  was  a  little 
volume  so  bright  with  promise  that  the  writer 
seemed  surely  destined  to  poetic  eminence.1  Un 
happily  his  restless  energy  and  exuberant  fancy 
were  unaccompanied  by  those  other  gifts  of  genius, 
patient  persistence  and  the  capacity  for  taking 

1  Published  in  1854.  Among  the  seventy  or  more  lyrics  was 
one,  The  Ruby,  addressed  to  me,  in  "  acknowledgment  of  a  ring 
received  from  "  —  and  so  forth,  on  some  occasion  which  I  have 
entirely  forgotten. 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS         185 

pains.  What  Byron  said  of  himself  was  more 
literally  true  of  Halpine,  —  he  must  capture  his 
prey  at  a  pounce  or  miss  it  altogether;  but  he 
lacked  Byron's  power  of  holding  on  after  a  fortu 
nate  seizure.  He  rarely  returned  to  a  poem  after 
the  first  inspiration  had  cooled,  and  it  generally 
went  into  the  waste-basket  if  once  left  unfinished 
or  needing  much  revision.  He  had  amazing  speed 
in  short  heats. 

An  unrestrained  and  sometimes  misguided  im 
petuosity  affected  his  conduct  as  it  marred  his  art, 
and  it  led  to  a  catastrophe  that  was  almost  a  tra 
gedy.  A  divergence  of  our  aims  in  life  had  been 
the  cause  of  our  gradually  drawing  asunder,  after 
about  two  years  of  pretty  close  intimacy,  but  I 
was  still  on  friendly  terms  with  him  when  he  came 
to  me  one  day  to  ask  my  aid  in  an  affair,  the  an 
nouncement  of  which  filled  me  with  incredulous 
astonishment.  It  was  nothing  less  than  a  duel. 

Halpine  was  a  reckless  critic,  and  after  he  be- 
became  connected  with  The  Carpet  Bag  (in  1852) 
he  began  to  print  in  that  sheet  articles  of  the 
old-fashioned  slashing  sort  of  which  Shillaber 
could  hardly  have  approved.  He  delighted  espe 
cially  .in  worrying  with  his  wit  a  young  poet  named 
Handiboe,  who  came,  I  believe,  from  one  of  the 
Southern  States,  —  who,  at  any  rate,  cherished  a 
Southern  sense  of  so-called  honor  and  a  prejudice 


186  MY  OWN   STORY 

against  personal  abuse.  Stung  to  rage,  Handiboe 
sent  him  a  solemn  challenge  by  the  hand  of  a 
friend,  who  had  likewise  lived  in  the  South  and 
was  familiar  with  the  "  code." 

This  challenge  Halpine  brought  to  me,  with  the 
astounding  request  that  I  should  serve  as  his  sec 
ond  ;  he  was  quite  in  earnest,  declaring  his  inten 
tion  to  give  Handiboe,  whom  he  confessed  to  hav 
ing  injured,  "satisfaction."  I  consented  to  act  as 
his  friend,  if  he  would  authorize  me  to  go  to  the 
other  party  and  explain  that  the  offensive  article 
was  written  more  for  sport  than  from  any  mali 
cious  intent,  that  he  regretted  the  in  jury,  and  that, 
at  all  events,  a  duel  in  New  England  was  impos 
sible.  But  Halpine  would  not  consider  such  a 
course.  He  said  :  "  We  can  go  to  Canada  and 
have  it  out  there.  If  you  will  not  be  my  second, 
somebody  else  will."  Finding  it  impossible,  either 
by  remonstrance  or  ridicule,  to  alter  his  deter 
mination,  I  accepted  the  responsibility,  solely  in 
order  to  prevent  the  duel  from  coming  off. 

Handiboe's  second  was  a  journalist  and  play 
wright,  a  social  Bohemian  (though  we  had  n't  that 
name  for  the  species  in  those  days),  by  name 
Ned  Wilkins,  known  to  me  only  by  reputation  up 
to  that  time.  He  called  upon  me  with  due  for 
mality,  and  I  was  pleased  to  find  that  he  took 
the  same  view  of  the  matter  that  I  did.  He  had 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS         187 

once  been  engaged  in  an  affair  of  honor  in  New 
Orleans,  and  he  explained  to  me  how  the  seconds, 
of  whom  he  was  one,  had  made  bullets  of  bread 
crumbs  coated  with  tin-foil,  loaded  the  pistols  in 
the  presence  of  their  principals  and  allowed  them 
to  fire  that  harmless  ammunition  at  each  other 
at  ten  paces  until  their  honor  was  satisfied.  He 
said  :  "  We  will  take  a  trip  to  Niagara  Falls  and 
maybe  have  an  interesting  time."  I  was  young 
and  adventurous  enough  to  agree  to  the  trip  and 
the  ruse  of  the  bread-crumb  bullets. 

How  our  two  principals  would  have  demeaned 
themselves  if  they  had  thus  been  brought  face  to 
face,  weapons  in  hand,  can  only  be  conjectured; 
for  the  affair,  even  while  our  plans  were  pending, 
was  precipitated  to  a  most  unlooked-for,  calami 
tous  conclusion,  the  circumstances  of  which,  al 
though  I  was  deeply  concerned  in  it,  cannot  be 
related  here.  Halpine  went  soon  after  to  New 
York,  where  he  began  at  once  a  new  and  success 
ful  course  in  journalism  and  politics. 

Upon  the  breaking  out  of  the  Rebellion  he  be 
came  a  war  Democrat,  entered  the  Sixty-ninth 
Regiment  as  lieutenant,  and  quickly  rose  to  the 
rank  of  adjutant-general  on  the  staff  of  General 
Hunter.  He  served  with  that  officer  in  South 
Carolina;  transferred  to  the  staff  of  General-in- 
Chief  Halleck,  he  had  charge  of  that  officer's 


1 88  MY  OWN   STORY 

military  correspondence,  and  afterwards  assisted 
Hancock  and  Canby  in  revising  the  army  regula 
tions.  Meanwhile  he  wrote  war  songs  that  be 
came  popular  with  soldiers  in  the  field  (Sambo's 
Right  to  be  Kilt  being  one  of  the  most  effective) 
and  also  contributed  to  the  press  the  humorous 
Private  Miles  O'Reilly  papers,  which,  together 
with  the  songs,  were  afterward  collected  in  book 
form.  Retiring  from  the  army  with  the  brevet 
rank  of  brigadier-general,  he  returned  to  New 
York,  became  a  conspicuous  figure  in  metropoli 
tan  politics,  edited  The  Citizen,  and  held  the  lucra 
tive  office  of  register.  His  death  was  fortuitous 
and  untimely.  Suffering  from  an  attack  of  neu 
ralgia,  he  administered  to  himself  —  with  charac 
teristic  rashness,  I  have  sometimes  thought  — 
an  overdose  of  chloroform,  and  thus  terminated 
his  own  life  in  his  thirty-ninth  year.  He  had 
great  talent,  vigor  of  mind  and  body,  and  engaging 
social  gifts  ;  and  I  have  always  felt  that  only  the 
more  commonplace  qualities  of  patience  and  pru 
dence  were  needed  for  the  fulfillment  of  his  early 

promise. 

VI 

In  the  autumn  of  1853  there  came  to  Boston  a 
Connecticut  girl  of  eighteen,  with  a  portfolio  of 
sketches  in  prose  and  verse  by  "  Ellen  Louise," 
which  she  was  offering  to  editors  in  advance  of  their 


GEX.    C.   0.    HAI.PINK   AND   B.    P.    SHILLABKR 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST  BOOKS         189 

appearance  in  a  book.  The  poems  were  the  dewy 
buds  of  a  talent  that  was  afterwards  to  find  its 
fullest  flowering  in  sonnets  remarkable  for  their 
tender  feeling  and  sustained  melody ;  while  her 
conversational  and  other  personal  and  social  gifts 
were  prophecies  (could  one  have  read  them  aright) 
of  the  unique  sphere  of  influence  she  was  to  fill 
in  Boston  and  London  society  during  these  later 
decades.  Her  graceful  girlish  contributions  were, 
as  I  remember,  readily  taken  by  editors ;  one  of 
whom,  —  quite  too  readily,  some  of  us  thought,  — 
while  accepting  her  articles,  got  himself  accepted 
by  the  writer,  and  Ellen  Louise  Chandler  became 
Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 

VII 

Another  apparition  of  young  womanhood,  that 
I  remember  as  beaming  transiently  upon  Boston 
in  those  years,  was  the  Maine  poetess  who  wrote 
under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Florence  Percy,"  and 
later  under  her  own  name,  Elizabeth  Akers,  after 
her  marriage  with  one  of  the  most  gifted  of 
American  sculptors.  A  well-known  poem  of  hers, 
Rock  me  to  Sleep,  became  the  subject  of  a  noto 
rious  contention,  in  which  I  was  so  much  inter 
ested,  as  a  friend  of  the  deeply  injured  author, 
that  I  give  it  a  brief  mention  here.  It  had  been 
some  time  published,  and  had  already  achieved  a 


1 9o  MY  OWN   STORY 

phenomenal  popularity,  when  a  New  Jersey  den 
tist  and  amateur  rhymester,  Dr.  Ball,  claimed  the 
authorship.  Being  a  person  of  ample  means,  he 
employed  an  advocate  at  a  liberal  fee  (one  thou 
sand  dollars,  it  was  said  at  the  time)  to  support 
his  pretension  in  a  pamphlet ;  in  which  were 
given  letters  of  reputable  witnesses  who  remem 
bered  hearing  him,  the  said  Ball,  read  the  poem 
from  manuscript  before  ever  it  appeared  in  print 
under  Florence  Percy's  name.  The  public  was 
largely  imposed  upon  by  this  special  pleading,  and 
William  Cullen  Bryant  was  misled  into  attributing 
the  poem  to  the  supposititious  author  in  an  edition 
of  Bryant's  Library  of  Poetry  and  Song.  Un 
fortunately  for  his  case,  Ball  issued  a  volume  of 
his  own  verse,  of  so  contemptible  a  quality  that 
the  purloined  Rock  me  to  Sleep,  which  was  in 
cluded  in  it,  with  additional  stanzas  by  Ball  him 
self,  shone  (as  I  wrote  in  a  letter  of  remonstrance 
to  Bryant)  like  a  diamond  in  a  dust  heap ;  whereas 
(as  I  went  on  to  argue)  any  one  examining  Flor 
ence  Percy's  poems  would  find  among  them  many 
of  equal  and  some  of  decidedly  superior  merit. 
Another  friend  of  Mrs.  Akers,  who  carried  to 
Bryant  my  letter,  enforced  its  representations  in 
an  effective  personal  appeal ;  and  in  the  next  edi 
tion  of  the  Library,  Rock  me  to  Sleep  appeared 
rightly  credited.  Mrs.  Akers  has  continued  to  do 


FRIENDS  AND  FIRST   BOOKS         191 

excellent  work  in  verse  and  prose ;  while  Ball  is 
remembered  only  in  connection  with  his  piratical 
pretense. 

Was  he  then  a  freebooter  by  premeditation,  and 
were  his  reputable  witnesses  base  perjurers?  It 
has  always  seemed  to  me  probable  that  he  had  writ 
ten  something  in  a  similar  vein,  that  he  had  read 
the  verses  to  undiscriminating  friends,  and  that 
they  afterwards  confounded  them  with  the  poem 
in  question ;  perhaps  aiding  him  in  the  self-delusion 
that  his  sentiments,  if  not  his  very  lines,  had  been 
plagiarized.  But,  however  innocently  he  began, 
he  must  have  known  what  a  bad  business  he  was 
in  before  he  had  proceeded  very  far.  Throughout 
the  whole  of  it,  Mrs.  Akers,  annoyed  as  she  must 
have  been  by  the  charge  of  theft  brought  against 
her  by  the  real  thief,  acted  with  commendable 
dignity  and  self-restraint. 

The  incident  is  not  without  parallel  in  our 
literary  annals.  A  certain  Miss  Peck  claimed  the 
authorship  of  William  Allen  Butler's  Nothing  to 
Wear,  after  that  poem  had  become  famous.  It 
was  another  woman,  a  Mrs.  or  Miss  Emerson 
(her  very  name  is  passing  into  kindly  oblivion), 
who  laid  violent  hands  on  Will  Carleton's  Betsy 
and  I  are  Out,  constituting  it  the  leading  poem 
of  a  volume  of  her  own  inferior  verse.  More  re 
cently  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  deprive  Ella 


192  MY  OWN   STORY 

Wheeler  Wilcox  of  one  of  her  popular  lyrics.  It 
is  sometimes  adduced  as  an  argument  against  the 
actual  authors  in  such  cases  that  the  copyright 
law  is  not  invoked  for  their  vindication.  That  law 
is  but  a  precarious  protection  for  anything  that 
has  originally  appeared,  without  its  express  attes 
tation,  in  the  pages  of  a  periodical ;  as  was  the 
case  with  each  of  the  poems  in  question.  I  once 
lost  a  valuable  property  in  one  of  my  duly  copy 
righted  early  volumes,  the  contents  of  which  had 
been  first  printed  as  a  serial  story  in  a  non-copy 
righted  newspaper.  Nobody  else  claimed  the 
credit  of  the  authorship,  but,  because  of  the  neg 
lected  technicality,  I  was  for  years  robbed  of  the 
royalties  of  a  continuously  selling  book. 

VIII 

Another  Boston  weekly  to  which  I  was  a  fre 
quent  contributor  was  The  Yankee  Blade,  con 
ducted  by  a  man  of  culture  and  experience,  Wil 
liam  Mathews,  —  afterwards  Professor  Mathews, 
of  the  University  of  Chicago,  author  of  Oratory 
and  Orators,  and  other  popular  works.  He  one 
day  said  to  me,  after  reading  a  sketch  I  had  handed 
him,  "You  ought  to  write  a  book."  I  replied 
that  I  should  "like  to  find  a  publisher  of  the 
same  opinion  ; "  which  led  to  his  taking  me,  a 
few  days  later,  to  the  publishing  house  of  Phillips, 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST  BOOKS         193 

Sampson  &  Co.,  one  of  the  largest  and  most  enter 
prising  in  Boston. 

I  did  not  then  enter  the  publishers'  office  for  the 
first  time.  The  stately  and  urbane  head  of  the  firm 
received  us  with  the  same  distinguished  courtesy 
with  which  he  had  bowed  me  from  his  presence, 
on  handing  back  the  manuscript  of  my  unfortu 
nate  novel,  that  I  had  submitted  to  him  some 
months  before.  He  did  not  seem  to  recall  the 
circumstance,  and  I  was  grateful  to  him  for  greet 
ing  me  as  if  he  then  saw  my  blushing  face  for  the 
first  time. 

Between  him  and  my  friend  there  had  evidently 
been  talk  concerning  me,  and  the  question  of 
what  I  might  do  for  the  house  soon  came  up. 

"Not  a  novel  —  not  just  now;  that  may  come 
later,"  Mr.  Phillips  said,  in  answer  to  a  suggestion 
from  me  ;  "  but  a  domestic  story,  something  that 
will  make  wholesome  reading  for  young  people 
and  families.  To  be  a  book  about  this  size,"  — 
handing  me  a  small  volume.  "  If  you  like  to  try 
your  hand  at  something  of  the  sort,  I  shall  be 
happy  to  give  it  favorable  consideration." 

Careful  as  he  was  not  to  commit  himself  fur 
ther,  and  disappointed  as  I  was  not  to  receive  a 
commission  for  a  more  important  work,  I  accepted 
the  humble  task,  and  hurried  to  the  Common  to 
walk  off  my  excitement  and  to  think  over  the 


i94  MY   OWN   STORY 

plan  of  a  story.  Before  I  went  home  to  my  room 
in  Seaver  Place,  I  had  not  only  the  motive  and 
main  incidents  clearly  in  mind,  but  also  the  title 
of  the  book,  to  be  named  from  the  chief  actor  in 
it,  —  Father  Brighthopes,  the  old  clergyman  whose 
gracious  influence  was  to  give  character  to  the 
narrative.  In  a  few  days  I  sent  Mr.  Phillips  the 
first  fifty  pages  of  the  story,  and  went  soon  after 
to  learn  its  fate. 

"  I  have  n't  had  time  to  look  at  your  manu 
script,"  he  said  as  I  took  the  seat  to  which  he 
motioned  me.  That  was  discouraging,  for,  being 
well  launched  in  the  narrative,  it  was  important 
for  me  to  know  at  once  if  I  was  to  go  on  with  it. 
"  I  carried  it  home  with  me,  to  Worcester,  and 
gave  it  to  my  wife."  My  hopes  pricked  up  a  little  ; 
I  thought  I  had  rather  take  a  woman's  opinion  of 
it  than  that  of  the  clearest-headed  business  man. 
Meanwhile  I  maintained  a  smiling  serenity  of  man 
ner,  prepared  for  any  fortune. 

His  eye  caught  sight  of  a  stocky  figure  passing 
the  office  door.  "  Ah,  there  is  Mr.  Broaders  ! 
Mr.  Broaders  attends  to  our  printing.  Mr.  Broad 
ers,  how  long  before  you  will  have  some  proofs 
for  Mr.  Trowbridge  ?  " 

"There  will  be  a  batch  to-morrow  or  next  day," 
Mr.  Broaders  replied.  "  I  can  show  him  a  sample 
page  now,  if  he  cares  to  look  at  it." 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS         195 

I  still  endeavored  to  keep  an  unruffled  demeanor, 
and  answered,  as  if  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
sample  pages  all  my  life,  "  Thank  you,  I  should 
like  to  look  at  it." 

I  was  not  dreaming ;  it  was  indeed  a  printed 
page  of  my  story. 

"  Then  Mrs.  Phillips  did  n't  find  it  so  very  bad  ? " 
I  said,  repressing  a  shiver  of  pleasant  excitement. 
"  I  have  more  here,  if  she  would  like  to  see  it." 

"  She  can  read  it  after  it  is  in  type.  The 
printers  will  want  the  manuscript  as  fast  as  you 
can  furnish  it,  —  won't  they,  Mr.  Broaders  ?  —  if 
we  are  to  issue  the  volume  this  spring,  which  we 
think  will  be  a  good  time  for  it." 

This  was  a  bewildering  surprise  to  me,  but  I 
merely  remarked  that  I  had  expected  to  revise  the 
manuscript  carefully  before  it  went  to  the  printers. 

"  What  revision  you  find  necessary  can  be  done 
in  the  proofs,"  said  Mr.  Phillips,  decisively,  handing 
my  second  batch  of  copy  to  Mr.  Broaders,  with 
hardly  a  glance  at  it. 

So  it  chanced  that  the  story  passed  into  type 
about  as  fast  as  it  was  written,  with  all  its  imper 
fections  ;  and  I  had  n't  the  heart  to  do  much  to  it 
in  the  proofs.  In  about  three  weeks  it  was  ready 
for  the  binders,  and  it  was  published  in  that 
month  of  May,  1853. 

Its  success  was  immediate,  and  far  exceeded  my 


196  MY  OWN   STORY 

expectations,  for  the  little  volume  seemed  to  me 
exceedingly  faulty,  as  soon  as  it  had  gone  irrevo 
cably  out  of  my  hands.  The  critics  were  kind  to 
it ;  people  of  the  most  opposed  sectarian  views 
united  in  accepting  Father  Brighthopes  as  an  em 
bodiment  of  practical  Christianity  —  that  religion 
of  the  heart,  which  is  no  more  a  part  of  any  creed 
than  a  living  spring  is  a  part  of  the  strata  through 
which  its  waters  gush ;  and  I  was  soon  gratified 
and  humbled  by  hearing  how  he  had  affected  many 
lives  —  more,  I  feared,  than  he  had  affected  mine  ! 
Readers  of  the  book  generally  conceived  of  the 
author  as  himself  a  venerable  clergyman  ;  and 
some  who  sought  his  acquaintance  on  account  of 
it  expressed  incredulous  surprise  on  finding  him 
hardly  more  than  a  boy.1 

IX 

Up  to  that  year  my  health,  although  never  ro 
bust,  had  been  uniformly  good,  often  exuberant. 
In  all  weathers  I  enjoyed  my  daily  walks,  gave 
myself  ample  recreation,  mental  and  social,  and  at 
one  time,  for  about  a  year  and  a  half,  took  sparring 
lessons  of  Professor  Cram,  and  other  vigorous  ex 
ercise,  at  his  Gymnasium  on  Washington  Street. 

1  This  account  of  how  Father  BrigJithopes  came  to  be  written 
is  condensed  from  the  Preface  to  the  Revised  Edition,  issued  in 
1892,  forty-nine  years  after  the  original  publication. 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST  BOOKS         197 

But  I  was  never  a  good  sleeper,  and  often  when 
my  mind  was  too  actively  employed,  and  I  most 
needed  sleep,  I  got  least.  That  spring  I  fell  into 
a  state  which  the  doctors  called  "  nervous  debility," 
and  having  a  horror  of  drugs,  I  spent  the  month 
of  June  at  a  water-cure  establishment  in  Worcester, 
where  I  made  a  pretty  thorough  trial  of  the  shower 
bath,  sitz  bath,  wet-sheet  pack,  and  other  interest 
ing  processes  pertaining  to  that  treatment.  Mr. 
Phillips,  my  publisher,  lived  in  Worcester,  and  I 
had  other  agreeable  acquaintances  there. 

Edward  Everett  Hale  was  then  in  Worcester, 
settled  over  his  first  parish  ;  before  his  marriage 
he  had  boarded  with  Mr.  Phillips,  who  knew  him 
intimately,  and  who  took  me  one  Sunday  to  hear 
him  preach.  Dining  with  Mr.  Phillips,  after  the 
services,  I  drew  from  him  this  opinion  of  Mr. 
Hale,  — 

"  Mr.  Hale,"  he  said,  "  is  a  very  able  man.  But 
I  doubt  if  he  ever  makes  his  mark  in  the  world, 
for  the  reason  that  he  lacks  industry." 

A  singular  judgment,  it  may  seem,  in  the  light 
of  what  this  "very  able  man"  has  since  accom 
plished.  But  the  truth  is,  Mr.  Hale  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  bestowing  much  study  upon  his  ser 
mons  (the  one  I  heard  was  short,  and  shall  I  be 
quite  frank  about  it  and  say  flimsy  ?)  ;  and  Mr. 
Phillips  could  not  well  foresee  how  far  the  wonder- 


198  MY   OWN    STORY 

fully  versatile  activity,  the  large  understanding, 
and  still  larger  heart  of  this  preacher,  philanthro 
pist,  man  of  letters,  were  to  carry  him  in  the  next 
half  hundred  years.  His  "  industry,"  if  we  may 
call  it  such,  must  have  been  prodigious,  though 
not  of  the  plodding  sort,  or  centred  overmuch  in 
his  sermons.1 

1  In  the  summer  of  the  World's  Fair,  at  Chicago,  riding  away 
from  a  club  dinner,  in  a  coach  with  Dr.  Hale  and  Eugene  Field, 
I  ventured  to  repeat  this  dictum,  uttered  by  Mr.  Phillips  forty 
years  before.  Dr.  Hale  looked  grave  for  a  moment,  as  his  mind 
glanced  back  to  those  old  Worcester  days,  then  dryly  remarked, 
"  Mr.  Phillips  was  a  good  friend  of  mine,  and  —  in  most  matters 
—  a  very  sagacious  man." 

Upon  an  occasion  commemorating  Dr.  Hale's  eightieth  birth 
day,  April  3,  1902,  I  contributed  the  following  reminiscence :  — 

In  writing  a  word  for  Dr.  Hale's  eightieth  birthday,  the  first 
thing  that  occurs  to  me  is  the  grudge  I  owe  him  for  the  constant 
rebuke  his  continued  marvelous  activity  puts  upon  idle  young 
fellows  like  me.  I  remember  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him, 
although  I  am  sure  he  will  not  in  the  least  recall  the  first  time 
he  saw  me.  It  was  in  Worcester  {where  he  was  then  settled 
over  his  first  parish),  forty-nine  years  ago  this  coming  month  of 
roses.  I  am  certain  of  the  year  (1853),  and  I  know  it  was  rose- 
time,  for  as  I  was  leaving  his  door  in  company  with  our  "  mutual 
friend,"  Mr.  M.  D.  Phillips,  the  publisher,  Mr.  Hale  turned 
aside  from  the  garden  walk  to  pluck  a  blooming  wonder,  which 
he  handed  me  with  the  remark,  "  Mr.  Trowbridge,  are  you 
learned  in  roses  ?  "  Of  course  I  was  n't  learned  in  roses,  and  of 
course  he  was.  This  was  the  first  humiliation  he  ever  put  upon 
me,  but  I  forgave  him,  for  I  carried  away  the  color  and  the  per 
fume,  and  was  willing  to  leave  the  science  and  the  care  of  cul 
tivation  to  him.  For  similar  reasons,  I  pardon  the  manifold 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS         199 

In  Worcester,  too,  that  summer,  I  first  saw  and 
heard  another  young  minister,  Thomas  Wentworth 
Higginson,  presiding  over  a  "free  church  "  there, 
and  preaching  (in  a  hall,  as  I  remember)  sermons 
marked  by  the  careful  preparation,  earnestness  of 
thought,  and  grace  of  style  which  have  character 
ized  all  his  subsequent  work  now  for  almost  fifty 
years.  The  friend  who  took  me  to  hear  him  told 
me  that  Higginson  even  then  contemplated  with 
drawing  from  the  pulpit  in  order  to  devote  himself 
to  literature.  "  Entreat  him  not  to  do  that !  "  I 
said,  speaking  out  of  my  own  experience  of  an 
author's  early  struggles,  without  considering  his 
maturer  years,  or  how  well  his  academic  training 
and  thorough  culture  fitted  him  for  boldly  entering 
on  a  career  of  letters  which  in  my  undisciplined 
youth,  and  with  my  poor  equipment,  I  had  found 
so  arduous. 

I  did  not  derive  any  appreciable  benefit  from 
the  douching,  soaking,  and  skin  friction  to  which 
I  was  subjected  at  the  Worcester  Water  Cure. 
What  I  really  needed  was  rest,  or  some  treatment 
(if  any  treatment  at  all  but  Nature's  own)  that 
would  soothe  the  nerves  and  restore  nutrition,  — 

reproaches  laid  upon  my  ignorance  and  inaptitude  by  his  amaz 
ing  activities  and  acquirements,  for  I,  too,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  have  all  the  while  been  sharing  the  results  of  his  later 
half-century  of  work  in  the  rose-garden  of  humanity. 


200  MY   OWN    STORY 

safeguard  the  citadel,  so  to  speak,  instead  of  draw 
ing  the  vital  energies  away  from  it  by  the  constant 
surprises  and  assaults  they  had  to  resist  at  the 
harassed  outposts.  Moreover,  the  society  of 
people  whose  invalidism  was  their  chief  interest  in 
life  and  topic  of  conversation  was  not  cheeringly 
tonic. 

On  my  way  back  to  Boston  I  stopped  to  see  my 
Trowbridge  relatives  in  Framingham.  When,  at 
dinner,  I  had  occasion  to  remark  that  I  could  n't, 
with  impunity,  eat  all  things  set  before  me,  a  wise 
old  grandam  of  the  family  poured  for  me  a  glass 
of  hard  cider,  saying,  "  Drink  it,  and  you  '11  have 
no  more  of  that  trouble."  I  drank,  and  verified 
her  prophecy.  Whether  I  owed  my  restored  di 
gestion  to  the  cider,  or  to  some  other  cause,  I 
cannot  affirm.  I  had  had  a  needed  mental  rest, 
and  now  the  physical  forces  that  had  been  so 
incessantly  diverted  to  the  surface  by  the  water 
treatment  turned  inward,  to  the  tired  system's 
grateful  relief. 

X 

Not  wishing  to  settle  down  at  once  to  work, 
in  July  I  set  off  on  a  more  extensive  journey 
than  any  I  had  hitherto  undertaken.  I  found  my 
mother  in  Lockport  and  took  her  with  me  to  our 
relatives  in  Illinois  ;  then,  in  the  course  of  the 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS        201 

summer,  continued  my  trip  by  stage-coach  and 
steamboat  to  the  "  far  northwest,"  as  it  was  then 
called,  —  as  far,  in  effect,  as  St.  Paul  and  the  Falls 
of  St.  Anthony. 

St.  Paul  had  then  twenty-five  hundred  inhab 
itants  ;  the  village  of  St.  Anthony  fifteen  hun 
dred  ;  there  was  no  Minneapolis.  The  Mississippi 
fell  perpendicularly,  eighteen  feet,  over  a  horse 
shoe  of  limestone  ledge,  into  a  wildly  picturesque 
gorge,  instead  of  sliding  tamely  down  an  inclined 
wooden  "  apron,"  as  when  I  saw  it  sixteen  years 
later ;  the  "  apron  "  having  been  constructed  to 
prevent  the  wearing  away  of  the  Falls.  At  that 
earlier  visit,  the  bed  of  the  river,  below  the  cata 
ract,  was  islanded  by  enormous  blocks  of  the  lime 
stone  stratum,  fourteen  feet  in  thickness,  which 
had  been  undermined  by  the  back  eddies  cut 
ting  out  the  softer  substratum,  and  broken  off  by 
the  weight  of  their  own  projecting  mass  ;  and  the 
work  of  destruction  was  still  going  on. 

It  was  a  journey  full  of  interest  and  adventure, 
and  of  discomforts  not  a  few.  The  passage  down 
the  Illinois  River  was  made  memorable  by  the  light- 
draft  stern-wheel  steamboat  getting  aground  at 
low  and  still  falling  water ;  by  the  terrible  August 
sun  beating  down  on  us  by  day,  and  swarms  of 
mosquitoes  invading  the  cabin  by  night,  where 
the  sleepers  snored  in  scattering  volleys  and  by 


202  MY   OWN    STORY 

platoons.  The  return  trip  across  northern  Illi 
nois,  from  Galena  to  Naperville,  almost  justified 
what  was  charged  against  some  Western  stage 
coach  routes  in  those  days,  that  passengers  who 
had  paid  their  fares  had  to  go  afoot  and  carry 
rails.  The  rails  were  for  prying  the  coach  wheels 
out  of  the  mud.  I  did  my  share  of  the  walking, 
but  conscientiously  refrained  from  the  rail  carry 
ing,  after  seeing  an  enraged  settler  rush  out  at  us 
with  a  gun,  to  shoot  the  first  man  that  laid  hand 
to  his  dooryard  fence.  Fences  were  few  and  rails 
scarce  ;  and  (being  within  range  of  his  rifle)  I 
inclined  strongly  to  his  view  of  the  question. 

I  returned  to  the  East  by  the  way  of  New  York 
city,  where  I  learned  that  my  good  friend  Madame 
Perrault  had  been  dead  a  year  or  two,  and,  that 
poor  little  Raphael  (no  longer  little)  had  a  young 
stepmother,  who,  I  was  glad  to  learn,  did  not 
send  him  out  so  often  as  his  own  mother  had 
done,  with  the  bottle  to  be  replenished. 

I  got  pretty  nearly  over  my  nervous  debility 
that  summer,  and  might  have  recovered  quite,  but 
for  a  passion  that  possessed  me  for  spreading  a 
new  gospel  among  my  relatives,  and  friends  old 
and  new.  I  had  enjoyed,  within  the  past  year, 
what  seemed  to  me  a  spiritual  illumination,  and 
had  got  so  far  beyond  my  early  repugnance  to  the 
discussion  of  religious  topics,  that  I  burned  with 


FRIENDS    AND   FIRST   BOOKS        203 

zeal  to  combat  and  overthrow  the  gloomy,  irra 
tional,  humanly  contrived  doctrines  that  had  bred 
in  me  that  repugnance.  I  would  hold  forth  half 
the  night  on  this  theme,  to  anybody  who  would 
listen ;  and  to  my  unspeakable  satisfaction,  there 
were  those  who  listened,  and  rejoiced,  and  believed. 

XI 

Returning  to  Boston  in  October,  I  set  to  work 
at  once  to  take  advantage  of  the  wind  of  success 
that  had  filled  the  sails  of  my  first  little  book ; 
and  by  the  middle  of  January  (1854)  had  followed 
that  by  two  more  of  a  similar  character,  written 
one  after  the  other,  with  the  stereotypers  at  the 
heel  of  my  pen. 

Then  my  publishers  proposed  to  me  what  I  had 
in  vain  proposed  to  them  not  so  very  long  before, 
—  a  novel.  A  full-fledged  work  of  fiction,  as  they 
called  it,  to  be  issued  in  monthly  parts,  after  the 
manner  with  which  Dickens  and  Thackeray  had 
familiarized  the  public.  I  was  at  first  dismayed 
by  the  suggestion,  foreseeing  how  much  to  my 
disadvantage  would  be  the  comparison  with  those 
great  writers  which  my  following  their  fashion 
would  seem  to  challenge.  I  was  willing  enough 
to  undertake  the  work  of  fiction,  but  I  desired  to 
write  it  more  at  my  leisure  than  would  be  possible 
with  the  inexorable  printer  waiting  for  my  monthly 


204  MY   OWN    STORY 

copy.  The  publishers  argued  that  I  could  get  a 
good  start  by  beginning  at  once ;  their  plan  being 
to  bring  out  the  first  number  in  the  spring.  On 
the  last  day  of  January  Mr.  Sampson  (whose  pet 
scheme  it  was)  took  me  to  spend  a  night  with  him 
at  his  home  in  West  Roxbury  ;  and  when  we 
parted  at  midnight,  and  I  went  to  bed  (but  not  to 
sleep),  I  had  assented  to  the  venture.  To  this 
day  I  marvel  at  my  own  temerity  and  at  the  firm's 
amazing  confidence  in  me. 

February  6  I  commenced  writing  Martin  Mer- 
rivale,  his  X  Mark  ;  by  the  middle  of  March  I  had 
three  numbers  (to  make  thirty-six  large  duodecimo 
pages  each)  in  the  hands  of  the  illustrators  and 
stereotypers  ;  and  on  May  i  the  initial  number 
was  issued.  Each  number  was  to  have  as  a  fron 
tispiece  a  carefully  drawn  illustration  by  Hammatt 
Billings,  one  of  the  most  skillful  designers  of  those 
days,  but  so  exasperatingly  remiss  in  keeping  his 
engagements  that  after  a  deal  of  trouble  in  getting 
the  first  two  or  three  blocks  from  him,  I  put  my 
manuscript  parts  into  the  hands  of  S.  W.  Rowse 
(later  the  famous  crayon  artist),  who  furnished  all 
the  subsequent  drawings,  and  with  whom  I  had 
always  the  pleasantest  personal  and  business  re 
lations. 

Early  in  July  I  took  my  work  to  Wallingford, 
Vt,  in  a  lovely  valley  of  the  Green  Mountains, 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS        205 

where  I  finished  it  late  in  August.  The  month 
of  September  I  passed  chiefly  among  the  White 
Mountains,  and  returned  to  Boston  about  the  last 
of  the  month,  to  see  the  concluding  numbers  of 
Martin  through  the  press.  There  were  to  have 
been  fifteen  of  these,  but  after  seven  or  eight 
had  been  published  separately,  the  remainder 
were  issued  together,  in  December,  simultaneously 
with  a  bound  volume  containing  the  completed 
work. 

The  subject  of  the  story  was  a  young  writer 
from  a  rural  village  going  to  Boston  to  find  a  pub 
lisher  for  his  great  romance,  The  Beggar  of  Bag 
dad.  His  adventures  among  publishers,  editors, 
and  "brother  authors,"  beginning  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  of  difficulty,  the  top  of  which  he  had  ex 
pected  to  reach  at  easy  strides,  were  among  the 
best  things  in  it,  if  there  were  any  "  best ;  "  while 
the  romantic  and  sentimental  parts  were  the  poor 
est,  and  very  poor  indeed,  in  comparison  with  the 
high  ideal  I  had  had  in  mind  when  I  set  out  to 
write.  The  issue  in  numbers  was  not  a  financial 
success  ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  volume  had  had 
time  to  make  its  way  with  the  public,  as  it  did  but 
slowly,  that  I  received  any  substantial  returns  for 
my  steady  half-year's  labor. 


206  MY   OWN   STORY 

XII 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year  (1854)  I  assisted  an 
especial  agent  of  the  Post  Office  Department  in 
preparing  for  the  press  a  volume  of  his  varied  and 
often  amusing  experiences  ;  and  might  have  been 
engaged  in  a  more  strictly  biographical  piece  of 
work  but  for  my  self-distrust.  Dr.  Wm.  T.  G. 
Morton  earnestly  desired  me  to  write  his  life, 
giving  particular  attention  to  the  details  of  his 
discovery  of  anaesthesia,  which  had  latterly  gained 
for  him  a  world-wide  renown.  Without  scientific 
attainments  outside  of  his  profession,  that  of  dent 
istry,  but  inspired  with  the  faith  that  there  must 
be  some  means  of  alleviating  the  sufferings  he 
was  himself  often  called  upon  to  inflict,  and,  con 
sequently,  the  more  terrible  agonies  attending  the 
surgeon's  knife,  he  had  sought  aid  and  informa 
tion  wherever  it  was  to  be  had  ;  but  to  him  alone 
was  due  the  credit  of  rendering  painless  opera 
tions  under  etherization  a  practical  success.  No 
man  who,  in  the  face  of  difficulty  and  discourage 
ment,  has  pursued  a  sublime  but  elusive  idea  to 
the  final  hour  of  triumph,  ever  experienced  a 
prouder  satisfaction  than  Morton  must  have  felt 
when,  at  the  first  public  demonstration  of  his 
method,  at  the  Massachusetts  General  Hospital, 
October  16,  1846,  Dr.  Warren  turned  to  the  attend- 


PR.    WILLIAM  T.    G.    MORTON 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST  BOOKS        207 

ing  physicians,  —  up  to  that  moment  skeptical,  if 
not  contemptuous,  and  hardly  yet  convinced  that 
the  patient,  who  had  slept  tranquilly  while  a  tumor 
was  taken  from  his  throat,  was  not  dead,  —  and 
said  to  them  decisively,  "  Gentlemen,  this  is  no 
humbug !  "  It  was  a  magnificent  reward  for  all 
his  trials  and  sacrifices.  But  man  cannot  live  by 
fame  alone.  Morton,  when  I  knew  him,  was  a 
poor  man.  He  had  given  his  discovery  to  human 
ity,  and  would  doubtless  have  received  an  early 
and  ample  grant  from  Congress  for  that  incom 
parable  boon,  had  not  rival  claimants  rushed  in  to 
dispute  with  him  the  honor,  and  ultimately  to  pre 
vent  the  award.  What  he  wished  me  to  do  was  to 
lay  the  subject  broadly  and  convincingly  before 
the  public,  with  the  object  of  influencing  Congress 
in  his  favor.  I  sincerely  doubted  my  talent  for 
doing  a  work  of  that  sort  or  acting  the  part  of  an 
advocate,  and  after  some  hesitation  declined  it. 
When  later  I  found  I  was  not  altogether  lacking  in 
such  ability,  I  regretted  not  having  written  the 
biography  of  the  originator  of  painless  surgery. 

XIII 

In  the  following  winter  I  had  my  first  experi 
ence  in  writing  for  the  stage.  Miss  Kimberley, 
an  actress  of  some  note  in  those  days,  applied  to 
me,  through  her  manager,  George  Roberts,  a  well- 


2o8  MY  OWN   STORY 

known  figure  in  Boston  journalism  and  kindred 
enterprises,  to  translate  for  her  Voltaire's  tragedy 
of  Semiramis,  with  a  view  to  her  assumption  of 
the  title  role.  As  anything  like  a  translation  of 
the  measured  and  monotonous  alexandrines,  in 
which  are  couched  the  interminable  set  speeches 
of  Arzace,  Otane,  Assur,  and  the  rest,  would  have 
emptied  any  American  theatre,  stampeding  the 
best-intentioned  audience  in  the  very  first  act,  I 
proposed  a  free  adaptation  by  omissions  and  com 
pressions,  accelerating  the  movement,  introducing 
two  or  three  humorous  minor  characters  to  relieve 
the  oppressive  gloom  of  the  drama,  and  rendering 
the  whole  in  as  terse  idiomatic  blank  verse  as  I 
could  command.  My  plan  being  approved,  I  set 
to  work  some  time  in  February  and  completed  the 
work  in  about  three  weeks.  Roberts  carried  off 
the  manuscript  about  as  fast  as  it  was  written, 
and  brought  back  from  his  protegee  enthusiastic 
praises  of  my  adaptation.  As  my  object  in  under 
taking  it  had  been  chiefly  to  raise  money  for  a 
trip  abroad  in  the  spring,  and  as  the  party  I  was 
dealing  with  had  not  a  very  sound  financial  repu 
tation,  I  exacted  cash  payments  now  and  then  as 
the  sheets  went  out  of  my  hands,  but  got  caught 
on  the  last  act,  for  which  Roberts  gave  me  only 
his  autographic  promise  to  pay,  —  a  promise  that 
was  never  redeemed. 


FRIENDS   AND   FIRST   BOOKS        209 

Miss  Kimberley  starred  with  Semiramis  two  or 
three  seasons,  with  rather  better  success,  I  think, 
than  she  ever  achieved  in  anything  else.  I  had 
stipulated  that  my  name  should  not  be  connected 
with  it,  not  merely  because  it  was  hack-work  of 
the  most  hurried  kind,  but  likewise  for  the  reason 
that  the  play  was  announced  as  "  written  ex 
pressly  "  for  her,  without  any  reference  to  Vol 
taire.  The  groundwork  was  Voltaire's,  and  there 
was  enough  of  it  to  found  a  very  good  charge  of 
plagiarism  on,  if  I  had  claimed  the  paternity  of 
the  piece  without  acknowledging  that  origin. 
Often  I  gave  the  gist  of  twenty  or  thirty  deliber 
ate  see-sawing  lines  in  a  swift  phrase  of  two  or 
three;  and  where  I  followed  the  original  most 
closely  I  stripped  away  veils,  to  come  directly  at 
the  thought,  —  as  I  did  quite  literally  in  the  open 
ing  speech  of  the  Queen, — where  she  sweeps 
across  the  stage,  but  pauses  distractedly  to  ex 
claim,  — 

"  O  voiles  de  la  mort,  quand  viendrez-vous  couvrir 
Mes  yeux  remplis  de  pleurs  et  lasses  de  s'ouvrir  ?  " 

This  I  rendered,  — 

O  death  !  O  grave  ! 

When  will  your  welcome,  everlasting  shades 
Cover  these  aching  orbs  ? 

I  wrote  in  passages  that   might,   I   fancy,  have 


210  MY  OWN   STORY 

caused  the  sage  of  Ferney  to  lift  his  skeptical  eye 
brows  a  little,  as  when  Semiramis  contrasts  the 
things  of  the  spirit  with  the  sterile  philosophy 
with  which  her  minister  seeks  to  console  her. 

O  Philosophy, 

Thou  cheat  and  plaything  of  the  intellect, 
Thou  comest  not  near  the  soul !  There  is  a  sense 
And  wisdom  of  the  spirit  deeper  far 
Than  thy  most  subtle  and  down-piercing  roots 
Have  ever  struck.    Things  that  thou  deem'st  unreal 
Are  the  essential  substance  that  shall  last 
When  all  this  goodly  show,  this  regal  pomp, 
These  towers  and  temples  that  adorn  the  globe 
And  seem  eternal,  shall  have  passed  away. 

I  had  no  further  pecuniary  interest  in  the  play 
than  the  partial  payments  I  was  fortunate  enough 
to  secure,  and  Mr.  George  Roberts's  valuable 
autograph. 

In  the  spring  (April,  1855)  I  went  abroad,  and 
spent  ten  months  in  Europe,  seeing  London, 
Paris,  Florence,  Rome,  Naples,  and  other  points 
of  all-absorbing  interest  to  an  enthusiastic  youth 
(of  all  which  I  dare  not  pause  to  speak),  but  pass 
ing  the  summer  and  autumn  mainly  in  Paris,  where 
I  completed  another  novel  that  marked  an  epoch 
in  my  literary  activity. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   WRITING   OF   NEIGHBOR   JACKWOOD l 


FEW  of  the  present  generation  of  readers  will  re 
member  the  fugitive  slave  cases  that  agitated  the 
country  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  one 
of  which,  that  of  Anthony  Burns,  shook  the  con 
servative  town  of  Boston  as  by  a  moral  earthquake. 
To  this  affair  especially,  and  to  two  or  three  simi 
lar  cases,  I  owed,  in  a  large  measure,  the  powerful 
impulse  that  urged  me  to  the  writing  of  an  anti- 
slavery  novel.  How  I  was  influenced  by  them  ; 
how,  almost  in  spite  of  myself,  and  against  my  own 
literary  taste  and  judgment,  I  was  led  to  construct 
a  story  with  the  one  tabooed  and  abominated  sub 
ject  craftily  concealed  (as  was  charged  at  the  time) 
in  the  very  heart  of  it,  a  surprise  to  be  exploded 
like  a  bombshell  in  the  face  of  unsuspecting  read 
ers,  —  how  I  came  to  commit  this  atrocity,  if  it 

1  This  chapter  comprises  a  large  part  of  an  Introduction  to  the 
latest,  revised  edition  of  the  novel,  Neighbor  Jackwood,  By  the 
courtesy  of  the  publishers,  Messrs.  Lee  and  Shepard,  I  am  en 
abled  to  add  it  to  these  memoirs,  in  the  order  in  which  it  belongs. 


212  MY  OWN   STORY 

was  one,  I  shall  endeavor  to  show  in  this  chapter 
of  reminiscences. 

I  early  imbibed  a  prej  udice  against  any  agitation 
of  the  slavery  question.  In  the  small  community 
in  western  New  York  where  I  was  brought  up,  I 
knew,  in  my  boyhood,  only  two  outspoken  aboli 
tionists.  One  of  these  was  our  good  Presbyterian 
minister,  Mr.  Sedgwick,  a  worthy  man  with  an  un 
fortunate  hobby,  as  it  was  deemed,  and  as  perhaps 
it  was.  His  hearers  were  all  good  Whigs  and 
Democrats,  who  paid  him  for  preaching  sound 
doctrinal  discourses,  and  did  not  care  to  be  re 
minded,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  that,  as  members 
of  the  two  great  political  parties  of  the  day,  they 
were  wickedly  winking  at  a  wrong  committed  in 
States  some  hundreds  of  miles  off.  Whatever  the 
subject  of  his  sermon,  he  was  apt  to  introduce  his 
delenda  est  Carthago  somewhere  in  the  course  of 
it ;  and  he  was  particularly  vehement  in  his  argu 
ments  against  those  who  endeavored  to  prove  by 
the  Bible  that  slavery  was  right.  The  other  abo 
litionist  was  a  somewhat  eccentric  young  man,  who 
taught  our  district  school  two  or  three  winters,  and 
taught  it  very  well.  But  as  he  was  known  to  enter 
tain  erratic  ideas  on  various  subjects,  and  had  been 
heard  to  declare  that "  even  if  the  Bible  said  slavery 
was  right,  that  would  n't  make  it  so,"  his  advocacy 
was  not  of  a  kind  to  help  an  unpopular  cause.  In 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD     213 

short,  he  did  n't  count ;  and  Mr.  Sedgwick  stood 
bravely  alone,  our  sole,  persistent,  in-season  and 
out-of-season,  rabid  abolitionist. 

I  never  was  a  good  listener  to  sermons  of  any 
sort,  unless  they  happened  to  be  interesting  ;  and 
when  imprisoned  in  the  bare  old  meeting-house,  I 
was  usually  thinking  so  intently  of  other  things 
that  I  would  hardly  be  aware  of  the  unwelcome 
topic  being  hammered  on  the  ministerial  anvil, 
until  I  saw  my  father  begin  to  fidget  in  his  seat, 
and  the  frown  to  gather  on  his  brow.  Often  the 
cloud  would  remain  until  dispelled  by  the  genial 
influence  of  the  late  Sunday  dinner.  Once  when 
I  had  been  left  at  home,  and  went  to  open  the 
dooryard  gate  for  the  one-horse  family  wagon  as 
it  drove  up,  I  noticed  the  ominous  scowl  on  my 
father's  face,  and  said,  loud  enough  to  be  heard,  — 

"I  guess  Sedgwick  has  been  pounding  slavery 
on  his  pulpit  cushion  again  to-day." 

"Another  of  his  everlasting  abolition  ha 
rangues  ! "  exclaimed  my  father,  as  he  got  down 
from  the  wagon  at  the  door.  "  I  wish  I  had  some 
sort  of  patent,  long-action,  quick-pressure  gag  to 
spring  on  him  the  instant  he  speaks  the  word 
'slavery.' " 

And  yet  he  was  a  hater  of  all  kinds  of  oppres 
sion,  and  one  of  the  most  scrupulously  just  men  I 
ever  knew. 


214  MY   OWN   STORY 

"Wrong?"  he  would  say.  "Of  course  it's 
wrong ;  nothing  under  heaven  can  make  it  right 
for  one  human  being  to  own  another.  But  what 's 
the  use  of  fighting  it  here  at  the  North  ?  Leave 
it  where  it  is,  and  it  will  die  of  itself.  Any  serious 
attempt  to  abolish  it  will  bring  on  civil  war  and 
break  up  the  Union." 

He  often  made  use  of  these  stereotyped  words  ; 
but  he  would  add,  "  I  'm  opposed  to  the  spread  of 
it ;  we  've  a  right  to  take  that  stand,"  —  little 
dreaming  that  in  less  than  twenty  years  a  deter 
mined  "stand,"  taken  by  the  North  against  the 
extension  of  slavery,  would  bring  on  attempted 
disunion  and  the  civil  war  he  dreaded. 

II 

So  the  subject  of  abolition  became  to  me  a  dis 
agreeable  one,  and  continued  so  after  I  went  to 
Boston  in  1848,  then  in  my  twenty-first  year.1  I 

1  Since  this  was  written  a  letter  has  been  returned  to  me, 
which  I  wrote  from  Lockport,  N.  Y.,  to  a  sister  in  Illinois,  in 
January,  1845,  when  I  was  seventeen  years  old.  In  it  I  speak  of 
competing  for  the  prize  offered  by  the  Niagara  Courier,  for  the 
best  poetical  New  Year's  Address  to  its  patrons,  mentioned 
earlier  in  these  pages.  "  I  called  at  the  office  in  a  few  days,  and 
was  told  by  the  editor  that  mine  was  the  best  they  had  received, 
but  that  there  was  almost  too  much  antislavery  about  it,  and  not 
enough  Whiggism"  I  do  not  remember  a  line  of  the  address, 
and  am  surprised  to  find  that  the  abhorred  subject  cropped  out 
in  it. 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD    215 

did  not  find  it  popular  in  that  highly  conservative 
city.  The  followers  of  Garrison  and  Phillips  were 
few ;  society  looked  upon  them  as  dangerous  fanat 
ics,  and  the  very  name  of  abolitionist  was  covered 
with  an  opprobrium  that  clung  to  it  long  after  the 
course  of  political  events  had  justified  their  moral 
convictions.  The  slave  power  itself  was  fast  doing 
more  than  its  most  relentless  enemies  could  accom 
plish  towards  awakening  not  Boston  only,  but  all 
the  North,  to  the  insatiableness  of  its  greed  and 
the  danger  of  its  aggressions.  Its  reign  was  a  reign 
of  terror.  Good  people  who,  like  my  father, 
quieted  their  consciences  with  the  cry,  "Let  it 
alone  !  leave  it  where  it  is  !  don't  agitate  the  sub 
ject  ! "  found  that  it  would  not  be  let  alone,  that 
it  would  not  rest  where  it  was,  that  it  was  itself 
the  great  agitator,  which  would  not  cease  its 
menaces  until  it  could  flaunt  its  black  flag  over  the 
whole  abject  Union. 

The  enactment,  in  1850,  of  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  turning  all  the  North  into  a  hunting-ground 
for  escaping  human  chattels,  roused  a  spirit  of  re 
sistance  in  thousands  who  had  hitherto  remained 
indifferent,  or  timidly  submissive,  to  the  encroach 
ments  of  the  monster.  It  made  an  "  antislavery 
fanatic"  of  me.  How  dangerous  I  was  I  did  not 
myself  suspect,  until  Mr.  Ben  :  Perley  Poore,  then 
publishing  his  Sentinel  in  Boston,  went  off  to 


216  MY  OWN   STORY 

Washington,  and  left  me  in  charge  of  the  paper, 
as  I  have  already  related.  He  had  been  gone  a 
week  or  two,  when  something  on  the  subject  of 
Northern  abolitionism  in  one  of  our  Southern  ex 
changes  provoked  me  to  reply.  I  meant  my  article 
to  be  dispassionate  and  judicial ;  and  when  it  was 
written  and  carefully  revised,  I  couldn't  see  any 
thing  in  it  that  should  give  offense  to  right-think 
ing  readers.  So  I  printed  it.  Then  the  deluge  ! 
I  hardly  knew  what  I  had  done,  when  my  good 
friend  Poore  came  hurrying  back  from  Washington, 
and  walked  most  unexpectedly  into  the  Sentinel 
office  one  morning,  where  he  found  me  seated  at 
the  desk,  unconscious  as  a  cherub  of  any  wrong 
doing.  When  I  expressed  surprise  at  seeing  him 
so  soon,  he  said  he  thought  it  was  time  for  him  to 
come  and  look  after  his  editor.  Always  genial  and 
kind,  he  yet  made  me  feel  extremely  uncomfort 
able  when  he  added,  — 

"  Good  heavens,  Trowbridge  !  what  were  you 
thinking  of,  to  turn  the  Sentinel  into  an  abolition 
paper  ? " 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  look  at  it  ? "  asked  the 
cherub. 

"  That 's  the  way  subscribers  will  look  at  it,"  he 
replied. 

A  good  deal  nettled,  I  said,  "  Then  perhaps  you 
would  like  me  to  leave  the  paper  ? " 


BEN.    PERLEY    POORE 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD     217 

"  Leave  the  paper  ? "  he  echoed,  with  about  the 
bitterest  laugh  I  ever  heard  from  his  lips.  "  Print 
another  such  article,  and  the  paper  will  leave 
us!" 

He  went  on  to  give  a  grimly  humorous  account 
of  the  sensation  my  poor  little  screed  created  in 
Washington,  where  he  had  many  friends  and  sub 
scribers,  all  of  proslavery  sentiments,  and  of  his 
sudden  haste  to  leave  that  city. 

"  Of  course,"  he  added,  "  I  laid  it  all  to  the  boy 
I  had  left  in  the  office." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what  was  there  about  the  boy's 
article  that  they  could  reasonably  object  to  ? " 

He  was  generous  enough  to  reply,  "  Nothing,  in 
my  opinion.  Every  word  of  it  is  true  enough. 
And  you  may  think  it  strange  that  a  man  can't 
print  in  his  own  paper  what  he  thinks  on  a  great 
public  question  like  slavery;  but  that  is  a  fact. 
We  shall  see." 

And  we  did  see.  Angry  protestations  from 
subscribers  were  already  lying  unopened  on  his 
desk.  More  came  in,  from  North  and  South  alike ; 
and  one  of  our  South  Carolina  exchanges  did  me 
the  honor  to  answer  my  article  with  an  insolent 
threat  of  secession,  —  an  old  threat  from  that 
State,  even  in  those  days,  and  not  altogether  an 
idle  one,  as  was  so  long  believed. 

Mr.  Poore  was  too  good  a  friend  to  discharge 


2i8  MY   OWN   STORY 

me  for  an  act  of  indiscretion  already  committed. 
But  he  was  right  in  his  prognostication.  The 
paper  soon  after  left  us  ;  that,  too,  without  the 
help  of  another  antislavery  leader.  How  many 
subscriptions  my  imprudence  lost  it  I  never  knew. 
It  never  had  too  many. 

Ill 

I  shared  the  intense  interest  awakened  in  Boston 
by  its  famous  fugitive  slave  cases  of  1850  and 
1851,  — the  romantic  escape  of  Ellen  and  William 
Craft,  and  the  more  notorious  and  dramatic  epi 
sodes  of  Shadrach  and  Thomas  Simms.  Yet  I 
hardly  realized  what  inflammable  antislavery  stuff 
was  in  me,  until  the  capture  of  Anthony  Burns 
occurred,  in  May,  1854. 

I  was  living  in  bachelor  lodgings  in  Seaver 
Place,  engaged  in  writing  Martin  Merrivale,  when 
the  terrible  realities  of  that  event  put  my  poor, 
fictitious  characters  to  ignominious  flight,  and 
kindled  in  me  a  desire  to  write  a  novel  on  a  wholly 
different  subject. 

It  was  not  easy,  at  that  time,  to  take  a  runaway 
slave  out  of  Boston  ;  secrecy  and  subterfuge  had 
to  be  used,  without  much  regard  to  the  forms  of  law. 
Burns  was  arrested  on  a  false  pretext,  and  hurried 
before  United  States  Commissioner  Edward  G. 
Loring,  before  it  was  known  that  kidnappers  were 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD    219 

again  in  the  city.  It  had  been  hoped  that  the 
rescue  of  Shadrach  and  the  tremendous  difficul 
ties  encountered  in  the  rendition  of  Simms  would 
sufficiently  discourage  similar  attempts,  as  indeed 
they  did  for  a  time.  Burns  had  really  been  seized, 
not  for  any  petty  offense,  as  was  pretended,  but  as 
a  fugitive  from  the  service  of  Charles  F.  Suttle,  a 
Virginia  slaveholder.  The  truth  became  quickly 
known,  despite  the  precautions  taken  to  conceal 
it ;  and  the  report,  which  was  made  a  rallying  cry 
to  the  friends  of  the  oppressed,  "  Another  man 
kidnapped  !  "  ran  with  electric  swiftness  through 
the  city. 

Commissioner  Loring  was  also  judge  of  probate, 
and  a  man  of  eminent  respectability.  In  his  pri 
vate  life  he  was,  no  doubt,  just  and  humane.  I 
was  present,  and  watched  his  face  with  painful  in 
terest,  when  he  rendered  his  decision  in  the  case. 
In  vain  had  Mr.  Richard  H.  Dana  made  his  elo 
quent  plea  for  the  prisoner,  warning  the  commis 
sioner  that  what  he  was  about  to  do  would  take 
its  place  in  history,  and  praying  that  it  might  be 
in  accord  with  a  large  interpretation  of  the  law, 
with  the  higher  conscience,  and  with  mercy.  The 
commissioner  had  evidently  determined  to  perform 
what  he  deemed  his  duty,  without  any  betrayal  of 
emotion.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed,  but  firm. 
My  pity  was  not  all  for  the  slave ;  some  of  it  was 


220  MY   OWN   STORY 

for  such  a  man  in  such  a  place.  On  a  bench  be 
fore  him  sat  Theodore  Parker  and  Wendell  Phillips, 
the  great  preacher  and  the  brilliant  orator,  whose 
certain  and  terrible  denunciations  of  what  he  was 
about  to  do  might  well  have  made  him  pause. 
Perhaps,  as  a  commissioner  acting  under  the  Fugi 
tive  Slave  Law,  and  ignoring  the  laws  of  Massa 
chusetts,  he  could  not  have  rendered  a  different 
judgment.  But  he  might  have  resigned  his  com 
mission,  and  washed  his  hands  of  the  whole  black 
business  in  that  way.  Without  a  tremor  of  lip  or 
of  voice,  he  coldly  reviewed  the  evidence  and  the 
law  in  the  case,  and  remanded  Anthony  Burns  to 
slavery.  Then  Parker  and  Phillips  arose,  and 
walked  arm  in  arm  out  of  the  court-room,  convers 
ing  in  low  tones,  with  bowed  heads  and  lowering 
brows. 

Meanwhile  Boston  was  in  a  turmoil  of  excite 
ment.  Public  meetings  were  held,  an  immense 
one  in  Faneuil  Hall  on  the  evening  preceding 
the  removal  of  the  fugitive ;  and  that  night  there 
was  a  gallant  attack  upon  the  Court  House  in 
which  he  was  confined.  A  stick  of  timber  was 
used  as  a  battering  ram  against  one  of  the  western 
doors,  which  was  broken  in  ;  there  was  a  melee  of 
axes,  bludgeons,  and  firearms,  and  one  of  the 
marshal's  guard  was  killed.  But  the  assailants, 
led  by  that  ardent  young  reformer,  Thomas  Went- 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD     221 

worth  Higginson,  of  whom,  later,  the  world  was 
to  hear  considerably  more,  and  by  a  colored  man, 
Lewis  Hayden,  were  unsupported,  and  were  driven 
back. 

Reports  of  the  Faneuil  Hall  meeting  and  of  the 
assault  on  the  Court  House  rallied  an  immense 
crowd  to  Court  Square  and  the  adjacent  streets 
the  next  morning,  to  witness  the  final  act  of  the 
drama.  It  was  a  black  day  for  Boston,  that  2/th 
of  May,  1854;  the  passions  of  men  were  stirred 
to  their  depths,  and  often  friends  were  divided 
against  friends.  I  remember  meeting  in  the  crowd 
one  with  whom  I  had  been  on  intimate  terms  not 
long  before.  He  had  been  an  officer  in  the  Mexi 
can  war,  and  was  as  much  of  a  Roman  as  to  his 
nose  and  character  as  any  man  I  ever  knew.  But 
that  day  the  Roman  in  him  was  enlisted  in  a  bad 
cause.  Drawing  me  aside  in  the  crowd,  and  open 
ing  his  vest,  he  grimly  called  my  attention  to  a 
revolver  thrust  into  an  inside  pocket. 

"What's  that  for,  Ned?"  I  asked,  in  the  old 
familiar  way. 

"  I  am  one  of  the  marshal's  private  deputies," 
he  answered,  with  brutal  frankness.  "  There  are 
over  a  hundred  of  us  in  the  Court  House  there 
and  in  this  crowd.  At  the  first  sign  of  an  attempt 
to  rescue  that  damned  nigger,  we  are  going  in  for 
a  bloody  fight.  I  hope  there  '11  be  a  row,  for  it 's 


222  MY  OWN   STORY 

the  top-round  of  my  ambition  to  shoot  an  aboli 
tionist." 

"  Well,  Ned,"  I  replied,  "you  may  possibly  have 
an  opportunity  to  shoot  me  ;  for  if  I  see  a  chance 
to  help  that  '  damned  nigger '  I  'm  afraid  I  shall 
have  to  take  a  hand." 

Any  attempt  of  the  kind  at  that  time  was  out 
of  the  question.  The  broken  door  was  barricaded  ; 
the  Court  House  was  a  fortress.  Besides  his  hun 
dred  deputies,  —  men  recruited  for  the  most  part 
from  the  brutal  and  vicious  classes  of  society,  fre 
quenters  of  grog-shops  and  gaming-saloons,  —  be 
sides  this  posse  of  desperadoes,  disposed  as  his 
special  guard  and  distributed  through  the  crowd 
they  were  to  watch  and  thwart,  the  marshal  had 
the  police  force  of  Boston  and  a  large  body  of 
militia,  ostensibly  to  keep  the  peace,  but  practi 
cally  to  aid  him  in  his  ignoble  task.  The  Court 
House  was  encircled  by  bayonets,  and  Court  Street 
and  State  Street  were  lined  on  both  sides  with 
files  of  troops,  keeping  a  lane  open  all  the  way  to 
Long  Wharf  for  the  expected  procession. 

At  last  it  set  forth,  led  by  a  vanguard  of  armed 
police.  "There  he  is  !  "  went  up  a  half -stifled  cry 
from  the  multitude ;  and  there  indeed  he  was, 
that  one  poor,  hunted,  black  bondman,  whom  a 
derisive  fate  had  that  day  made  the  most-talked-of 
and  important  figure  in  all  New  England.  What 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD     223 

must  he  have  thought  of  the  great  concourse  of 
citizens,  the  swords  and  clubs  and  muskets,  that 
met  his  bewildered  gaze  as  he  walked  forth  from 
his  prison  ?  —  all  there  for  him,  the  wretched  and 
baffled  runaway  from  Virginia  !  I  remember  his 
scared  black  face,  as  he  rolled  his  eyes  about  for 
a  moment  before  he  was  hurried  away  ;  not  so 
very  black,  either,  —  a  complexion  rather  of  bronze 
than  of  iron,  —  with  a  gleam  of  excitement  in  it 
which  was  almost  a  smile.  He  had  heard  the 
blows  that  thundered  against  the  Court  House 
door  the  night  before ;  he  knew  what  they  meant ; 
he  knew  how  Shadrach  had  been  rescued ;  but  if 
he  still  cherished  a  hope  of  his  own  deliverance, 
it  must  have  abandoned  him  at  that  moment.  All 
was  over.  The  free  land  to  which  he  had  escaped 
through  difficulties  and  dangers  was  no  free  land 
for  such  as  he.  Back  he  must  go  to  bondage  and 
the  lash. 

There  was  no  pause.  The  marshal  and  his 
special  guard  inclosed  Burns  in  a  compact  pha 
lanx,  following  the  vanguard,  and  another  body  of 
armed  police  brought  up  the  rear.  The  march 
was  rapid,  amid  groans  and  hisses,  and  now  and 
then  a  cheer,  from  the  ranks  of  spectators.  From 
Court  Square  into  Court  Street,  gazed  at  from 
hundreds  of  windows,  some  of  which  were  draped 
in  black  in  token  of  the  city's  humiliation  ;  past 


224  MY   OWN   STORY 

the  old  State  House,  and  over  the  very  ground 
where  the  first  blood  was  shed  preluding  the  Re 
volutionary  struggle,  some  of  it  the  blood  of  a 
black  man,  —  scene  of  the  Boston  Massacre  ;  and 
so  on,  down  State  Street,  moved  the  strange  pro 
cession,  between  the  two  rows  of  bayoneted  guns, 
to  Long  Wharf,  where,  by  the  President's  orders, 
a  revenue  cutter  was  in  waiting,  to  receive  on 
board  the  kidnappers  and  their  prey. 

IV 

It  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  sit  down  again 
quietly  to  the  fiction  on  which  I  was  engaged.  I 
felt  a  burning  desire  to  pour  out  in  some  channel 
the  feelings  which,  long  suppressed,  had  been 
roused  to  a  high  pitch  of  excitement  by  this  last 
outrage.  Still,  something  of  the  old  repugnance 
to  the  subject  of  slavery  remained  ;  I  shrank  from 
the  thought  of  making  a  black  man  my  hero  ;  the 
enormous  popularity  of  Uncle  Tom,  instead  of 
inciting  me  to  try  my  hand  at  an  antislavery 
novel,  served  rather  to  deter  me  from  entering  the 
field  which  Mrs.  Stowe  had  occupied  with  such 
splendid  courage  and  success. 

More  than  once,  before  the  Anthony  Burns 
affair,  before  Uncle  Tom  even,  the  fugitive  slave 
as  a  subject  for  a  novel  had  come  up  in  my  mind, 
and  I  had  put  it  resolutely  aside ;  but  now  it  pre- 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD    225 

sented  itself  again,  and  persistently  haunted  me. 
"Why  a  black  man?"  I  said  to  myself.  "All 
slaves  are  not  black.  And  why  a  man  at  all  ? " 
as  I  thought  of  Ellen  Craft.  "  Sympathy  will  be 
more  easily  enlisted  for  a  woman,  white,  with 
native  refinement  and  sweetness  of  character,  and 
yet  born  a  slave,  with  all  the  power  and  prejudice 
of  legal  ownership  and  cruel  caste  conspiring  to 
defeat  her  happiness."  And  I  fell  to  thinking  of 
that  worst  form  of  slavery  which  condemned  to  a 
degrading  bondage  not  those  of  African  blood 
alone,  but  so  many  of  the  descendants  of  the 
proud  white  master  race. 

Though  I  was  hardly  conscious  of  it,  the  thing 
was  taking  shape  in  my  mind  when  I  went  to 
spend  the  summer  (of  1854)  at  Wallingford,  Vt., 
in  the  bosom  of  the  Green  Mountains.  In  the 
broad  and  beautiful  valley  of  Otter  Creek  I  found, 
in  an  old  farm-house,  a  quiet  place  to  live,  and 
think,  and  write.  I  gave  four  or  five  hours  a  day 
to  Martin  Merrivale,  and  had  ample  leisure,  in  the 
long  summer  afternoons,  to  bathe  in  the  streams, 
wander  in  the  woods,  climb  the  mountains,  and  in 
the  course  of  my  rambles  make  extensive  acquaint 
ance  with  the  country  and  the  people. 

One  day,  while  exploring  the  interval  about  the 
confluence  of   Otter  Creek  and    Mad   River,— 
which    became    Huntersford    Creek    and    Wild 


226  MY   OWN   STORY 

River  in  the  novel,  the  scene  of  the  fishing  ad 
venture  of  Mr.  Jackwood  and  Bim,  —  lost,  like 
them,  amid  the  tortuous  windings  of  the  two 
streams,  still  further  lost  in  my  own  imaginings, 
I  suddenly  saw  rise  up  before  me  out  of  the 
tall  grass  the  form  of  an  old  hag.  And  it  was 
not  an  old  hag  at  all,  but  a  beautiful  girl  in  dis 
guise  ;  nor  yet  a  girl,  but  really  a  creature  of  my 
own  imagination,  which  appeared  as  vividly  to  my 
mind's  eye  as  if  it  had  been  either  or  both. 

"  Both  it  shall  be,"  I  said  ;  "a  forlorn  maiden 
in  the  guise  of  an  old  woman,  lost  here  in  this 
wilderness  of  alders  and  long  grass  and  labyrin 
thine  streams  !  —  a  mystery  to  be  accounted  for." 
And  the  phantom-like  projection  of  my  fancy 
took  its  place  at  once  in  the  plan  of  the  story, 
giving  it  life  and  form  from  that  hour. 


I  was  impatient  to  get  "  Martin  "  off  my  hands, 
and  to  begin  the  new  novel,  of  which  I  wrote  the 
first  chapters  in  the  old  Vermont  farmhouse,  in 
the  midst  of  the  scenes  described.  It  was  then 
thrown  aside,  to  be  taken  up  later,  under  very 
different  circumstances.  I  carried  the  manuscript 
to  Europe  with  me  in  the  spring  of  1855  ;  and 
having  settled  down  in  Passy,  just  outside  the 
walls  of  Paris  (now  a  part  of  Paris  itself),  I  resumed 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD     227 

work  upon  it,  writing  a  chapter,  or  a  part  of  a 
chapter,  every  morning,  and  joining  my  friends 
in  excursions  in  and  about  the  gay  capital  in  the 
afternoon. 

I  had  one  friend  there  who,  by  his  sympathetic 
and  suggestive  criticisms,  assisted  me  greatly  in 
my  work.  He  read  the  manuscript  almost  as  fast 
as  it  was  written,  and  was  always  eager  to  talk 
with  me  about  the  incidents  and  characters,  and 
their  development ;  thus  keeping  up  my  interest 
in  them  when  it  might  otherwise  have  flagged 
amid  the  diversions  of  a  life  so  strangely  in  con 
trast  with  the  life  I  was  depicting.  Often  we 
walked  together  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  of  an 
evening,  sat  down  on  a  bench  by  one  of  the  lakes, 
and  discussed  the  Jackwood  family,  Enos  Crum- 
lett  and  Tildy,  Hector  and  Charlotte,  and  the 
slave-catchers,  until  these  became  more  real  to  us 
than  the  phantasmal  beings,  in  carriages  or  on 
foot,  moving  before  our  eyes  in  the  lighted  park. 
This  friend  was  Lewis  Baxter  Monroe,  afterwards 
well  known  as  Professor  Monroe  of  the  Boston 
School  of  Oratory,  whom  I  shall  have  other  oc 
casions  to  mention,  further  on  in  these  memoirs. 

The  story  finished,  I  had  great  trouble  in  nam 
ing  it.  I  suppose  a  score  of  titles  were  consid 
ered,  only  to  be  rejected.  At  last  I  settled  down 
upon  "Jackwood,"  but  felt  the  need  of  joining  to 


228  MY  OWN   STORY 

that  name  some  characteristic  phrase  or  epithet. 
Thus  I  was  led  to  think  of  this  scriptural  motto 
for  the  title-page :  "  A  certain  woman  went 
down  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho,  and  fell  among 
thieves."  Which  suggested  the  question,  "Who 
was  neighbor  unto  this  woman  ?  "  and  the  answer, 
"  Neighbor  Jackwood."  And  I  had  my  title. 

I  read  the  proofs  of  the  novel  in  the  spring  of 
1856,  after  my  return  to  America ;  but  it  was  not 
published  until  the  following  winter,  for  a  special 
reason,  which  found  considerably  less  favor  with 
the  author  than  with  the  publishers.  Mr.  Phil 
lips  was  afraid  the  work  might  be  lost  sight  of  in 
the  dust  raised  by  Mrs.  Stowe's  Dred,  which  he 
was  to  issue  about  the  time  my  humbler  venture 
was  ready.  I  was  repaid  for  this  tax  upon  my 
patience  when,  after  the  book  had  been  out  a  few 
days,  and  the  press  notices  were  beginning  to 
come  in,  Mr.  Phillips  greeted  me  one  morning 
with  his  peculiarly  stately  bow  and  a  serene  smile, 
and  remarked  significantly,  "  Our  friend  Jack- 
wood  needn't  have  been  afraid  of  anybody's  dust." 

It  had  the  advantage  of  a  fresh  and  unhack 
neyed  theme,  and  was  the  first  serious  attempt  to 
depict  those  phases  of  country  life  amid  which  the 
narrative  moves,  and  to  render  the  speech  of  the 
people  with  due  regard  to  its  humorous  flavor, 
yet  absolutely  without  exaggeration.  Although  it 


MOSES   DRKSSER    PHILLIPS 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD     229 

was  written  "with  a  purpose,"  that  purpose  was 
inclosed,  as  far  as  possible,  in  the  larger  aim  of 
telling  a  strong  and  interesting  story.  Of  course 
the  antislavery  element  in  it  was  liberally  de 
nounced,  and  the  bombshell  of  surprise,  before 
mentioned,  caused  a  shock  to  the  prejudices  of 
many  worthy  people.  They  were  horrified  by  the 
mere  suggestion  of  a  union  between  the  hero  and 
heroine.  I  had  been  careful  to  offset  the  cloud  of 
heredity  resting  upon  her  by  one  more  terrible 
lowering  upon  his  family  and  threatening  him  ; 
but  those  so  quick  to  take  offense  at  the  one  gave 
no  heed  to  the  other. 

VI 

The  success  of  the  novel  led  to  its  dramatiza 
tion  by  the  author  for  the  Boston  Museum  stage, 
then  managed  by  the  veteran  actor  W.  H.  Smith, 
who  took  the  title  r61e  of  Neighbor  Jackwood. 
The  part  of  Enos  Crumlett  was  expanded  to  the 
proportions  of  William  Warren,  a  comic  actor  of 
rare  powers,  for  many  years  a  prime  favorite  with 
Boston  audiences,  that  never  wearied  of  his  broad 
yet  delicate  and  genial  humor.  I  engaged  all  the 
players  to  read  the  book  while  studying  their 
parts,  and  thus  secured  unusually  good  persona 
tions  of  the  characters  from  a  mediocre  company. 
We  had  a  bright  young  girl,  Rose  Skerritt,  to 


230  MY  OWN   STORY 

personate  Bim.  Mrs.  Thompson,  who  was  never 
a  noticeably  bright  star  in  anything  else,  blazed 
out  conspicuously  as  Grandmother  Rigglesty,  into 
which  character  she  threw  energies  she  was  not 
before  supposed  to  possess,  —  so  conscientious  in 
her  presentation  of  it  that,  as  Dr.  Holmes  re 
marked,  she  "  took  out  her  teeth." 

The  first  night  of  the  piece  was  memorable  to 
at  least  one  person  in  the  audience.  I  went  early 
to  the  theatre,  and  ensconced  myself,  with  a 
friend,  in  an  obscure  corner,  where  I  could  care 
fully  watch  the  performance,  to  see  where  it 
dragged,  and  note  whatever  changes  should  be 
made  in  the  inevitable  "  cutting  "  process  to  take 
place  the  next  day.  All  went  prosperously,  until 
suddenly  there  was  a  hiss,  and  a  storm  of  howls 
and  hisses  immediately  followed.  A  crisis  in  the 
plot  had  been  reached  which  roused  the  opposi 
tion  of  the  proslavery  part  of  the  audience,  —  a 
very  large  part,  as  it  seemed  for  a  while.  A 
counter-storm  of  cheers  and  clappings  set  in,  and 
there  was  a  prolonged  uproar  that  threatened  to 
end  the  performance.  Victory  at  last  remained 
with  the  friends  of  the  piece,  and  the  performance 
proceeded. 

"You  will  cut  out  those  objectionable  speeches  ?" 
my  friend  whispered  in  my  ear. 

"  No,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  will  strengthen  them." 


WRITING  OF  NEIGHBOR  JACKWOOD     231 

An  amusing  incident  occurred  when  we  were 
on  our  way  to  the  theatre  that  first  night,  Monday, 
March  16,  1857.  Being  just  then  personally 
interested  in  playbills,  I  turned  aside  to  see  what 
a  man  was  pasting  over  one  which  I  had  regarded 
with  especial  satisfaction,  whenever  I  passed  it 
that  day  and  the  preceding  Sunday.  It  was  the 
bill  of  the  next  days  performance  of  Jackwood ; 
and  on  it  was  announced,  in  the  showy  head-lines 
then  in  vogue,  the  astonishing  success  of  the  first 
performance,  which  we  were  then  on  our  way  to 
witness ! 

TREMENDOUS  HIT  ! ! 

RECEIVED  WITH  THUNDERS  OF  APPLAUSE  ! ! ! 

"All  right,  only  the  man  anticipates  a  little," 
said  my  friend,  as  we  went  on  laughing.  "  But 
we  '11  take  it  as  a  good  omen." 

I  may  here  add  that  this  incident  served  as 
a  hint  for  the  opening  lines  of  Author's  Night, 
written  a  few  years  later  :  — 

" '  BRILLIANT  SUCCESS  ! '  the  play-bills  said, 
Flaming  all  over  the  town  one  day, 
Blazing  in  capitals  blue  and  red,  — 
Printed  for  posting,  by  the  way, 
Before  the  public  had  seen  the  play"  etc. 

Jackwood  had  a  long  and  prosperous  run  on 
the  boards  in  Boston,  and  was  afterwards  brought 
out  in  other  places,  but  with  less  satisfactory  re- 


232  MY   OWN   STORY 

suits.  In  New  York  it  was  badly  acted,  all  the 
naturalness  and  humor  of  the  parts  being  de 
graded  to  mere  farce  ;  as  I  saw  to  my  sorrow,  on 
an  occasion  rendered  the  more  harrowing  to  my 
feelings  as  an  author  by  the  fact  that  I  had  invited 
my  friends  of  those  years,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard 
Henry  Stoddard,  and  another  friend  who  had 
accompanied  me  from  Boston,  to  occupy  a  box 
with  me  at  the  absurd  performance. 

It  is  now  some  years  since  the  play  has  been 
represented  by  any  professional  company,  but  it 
is  still  used  in  amateur  theatricals ;  and  the  novel 
has  never  lacked  readers. 


CHAPTER  VII 

UNDERWOOD,    LOWELL,    AND    THE   ATLANTIC 
MONTHLY 


I  FOLLOWED  the  play  of  Neighbor  Jackwood 
on  the  Museum  stage  with  a  spectacular  piece, 
Sindbad  the  Sailor,  which  also  had  a  prosperous 
run  of  several  weeks  ;  and  did  other  work  for  the 
Museum  proprietor,  Mr.  Moses  Kimball,  in  the 
way  of  adaptation  and  dramatization.  Meanwhile 
I  contributed  to  two  of  the  popular  Philadelphia 
magazines,  also  to  Putnam's  and  Harper's ;  and 
in  the  summer  of  1857  I  made  still  another  West 
ern  journey,  writing  letters  for  the  New  York 
Tribune  over  the  signature  of  "  Jackwood." 

In  the  fall  of  1857  The  Atlantic  Monthly  was 
started,  an  event  I  shall  now  give  some  account  of, 
together  with  recollections  of  the  man  to  whom, 
more  than  to  any  other,  its  inception  was  due. 

II 

I  remember  well  the  occasion  of  my  first  meet 
ing  with  Francis  Henry  Underwood,  much  better 


234  MY   OWN   STORY 

indeed  than  I  recall  the  month,  or  even  the  year, 
although  I  think  it  must  have  been  late  in  the 
autumn  of  1853.  It  was  on  a  Monday  morning, 
and  he  had  been  but  an  hour  or  two  at  the  desk 
newly  placed  for  him  in  the  counting-room  of 
Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.  As  I  entered  on  some 
errand,  the  strange  face  looked  up  with  a  surprised, 
interested,  penetrating  expression,  which  kindled 
into  cordial  recognition  as  the  urbane  head  of  the 
firm  approached  and  introduced  us. 

He  was  then  in  the  flower  of  early  manhood, 
not  quite  twenty-nine  years  old,  with  a  fine  ruddy 
complexion,  frank  yet  dignified  manners,  and  an 
admirable  aplomb  which  made  him  a  noticeable 
man  in  any  company.  He  had  had  his  share  of 
the  varied  experiences  commonly  attending  the 
career  of  a  typical  self-made  American.  He  had 
been  school  teacher,  law  student,  and  clerk  of  the 
Massachusetts  State  Senate  in  the  stirring  "  coali 
tion"  days  of  1852,  when  stalwart  Henry  Wilson 
was  president  of  that  body,  and  Banks  and  Hoar 
and  other  notable  members  of  the  House  were  in 
training  for  the  wider  arena  of  national  politics. 
But  his  aspirations  were  always  more  literary  than 
political,  and  after  a  year's  service  in  the  Senate 
he  had  found  a  more  congenial  position  in  the 
great  publishing  house,  where  his  chief  duties 
were  to  examine  manuscripts  offered  for  publica- 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  235 

tion,  and  conduct  correspondence  with  authors. 
I  found  him  extremely  companionable,  warming 
quickly  to  a  new  acquaintance ;  and  I  envied  in 
him  the  entire  absence  of  that  shyness  which  in 
me  too  often  repressed  the  ardor  of  social  im 
pulses.  He  had  many  friends  among  all  sorts  of 
people,  but  principally  among  artists  and  writers. 
There  was  one,  particularly,  of  whose  intimacy  he 
was  justly  proud,  the  brilliant  wit  and  poet  of  Cam 
bridge,  — "  my  friend  Mr.  Lowell,"  as  he  com 
monly  spoke  of  him  with  undisguised  satisfaction. 
I  saw  him  almost  daily  at  his  office,  but  our 
real  intimacy  began  when  first  he  invited  me  to 
his  house.  "  Come  and  dine  with  me  on  Sunday," 
he  said,  "and  in  the  afternoon  we  will  walk  over 
to  Elmwood."  It  was  a  red-letter  day  for  me, 
when  I  went  out  from  Boston  at  the  appointed 
time,  found  him  in  his  modest  home  (he  was  liv 
ing  in  Cambridge),  and  after  dinner  walked  with 
him  to  the  home  of  the  Lowells. 

Ill 

I  had  never  yet  seen  the  author  of  the  Biglow 
Papers  and  A  Fable  for  Critics  ;  and  the  antici 
pation  of  meeting  him  sensitized  my  mind  for 
sharp  and  enduring  impressions.  I  retain  a  dis 
tinct  picture  of  Elmwood  as  it  looked  that  after 
noon  :  a  spacious,  square,  old-fashioned  mansion, 


236  MY   OWN   STORY 

standing  in  the  midst  of  snow-covered  grounds, 
and  surrounded  by  tall  trees  and  clumps  of  ragged 
lilacs,  all  bare  of  foliage  except  the  pines  lifting 
their  golden-green  tops  in  the  wintry  sunshine. 
My  guide  entered  like  a  familiar  guest,  and  led 
the  way  up  three  flights  of  stairs  to  a  large  front 
room,  which  was  the  poet's  study.  Mere  words 
often  convey  to  the  mind  impressions  of  form  and 
color ;  and  I  had  conceived  of  Lowell  —  not  from 
anything  he  had  written,  but  solely  from  the  sound 
of  the  two  syllables  of  his  name  —  as  a  tall,  dark, 
dignified  person,  with  a  thin  face,  ample  forehead, 
and  prominent  nose.  Very  great,  therefore,  was 
my  surprise  when  I  was  ushered  into  the  presence 
of  a  compact  little  man  in  short  velvet  jacket, 
with  wavy  auburn  hair  parted  in  the  middle  over 
a  full,  fair  forehead  that  appeared  neither  broad 
nor  high,  and  a  bright,  genial  face  more  expres 
sive  of  the  vigorous  and  humorous  Hosea  than  of 
the  exalted  Sir  Launfal. 

The  easy  cordiality  of  his  greeting  put  me  at 
once  at  my  ease,  and  prepared  me  for  the  enjoy 
ment  of  a  delightful  occasion.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  receive,  at  that  hour  on  Sunday  after 
noons,  a  small  circle  of  friends,  among  whom  he 
was  the  shining  central  figure.  Soon  after  our 
arrival  Robert  Carter  came  in,  a  short,  sturdy 
man,  with  a  big  forehead  spanned  by  a  pair  of  gold- 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  237 

bowed  spectacles,  a  walking  cyclopaedia  of  infor 
mation.  Dr.  Estes  Howe,  Lowell's  brother-in-law, 
and  two  or  three  others  made  up  the  company, 
and  a  quiet,  desultory  conversation  ensued  ;  not 
at  all  that  of  gods  discoursing  "  from  peak  to  peak 
all  about  Olympus,"  but  very  much  like  the  talk 
of  men  of  sense  and  culture  anywhere.  Some 
good  stories  were  told,  there  was  now  and  then  a 
meteoric  pun,  or  a  wise  observation  illumined  a 
subject  like  the  sudden  flash  of  a  search-light ; 
but  what  interested  me  most  was  the  reading  by 
Lowell  of  some  verses  which  I  do  not  remember 
ever  to  have  seen  in  print.  The  talk  turning  upon 
French  poetry,  he  took  from  a  shelf  of  ponderous 
volumes  a  work  of  Voltaire's,  from  which  he  first 
read  us  a  part  of  Hamlet's  soliloquy  in  the  great 
Frenchman's  attenuated  and  flexible  alexandrines  ; 
a  version  as  much  like  the  original  as  some  luxu 
riant  vine  is  like  a  rugged  trunk  it  climbs  and 
hides.  This  paraphrase  Lowell  had  retranslated 
into  English  quite  faithfully,  giving  it,  however, 
some  sly  turns  to  bring  out  with  ludicrous  effect 
its  graceful  feebleness  in  contrast  with  the  sen 
tentious  Shakespearean  lines. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  company 
separated,  and  I  went  home  to  tea  with  Under 
wood  ;  then  in  the  evening  I  walked  back  to  Bos 
ton,  stopping  long  on  the  bridge  —  one  of  Lowell's 


238  MY  OWN   STORY 

"  caterpillar  bridges  crawling  with  innumerable  legs 
across  the  Charles  "  —  to  watch  the  stars  mistily 
wavering  in  the  dark,  full  river,  and  to  think  over 
the  events  of  the  afternoon. 

Besides  these  Sunday  afternoons  at  Lowell's 
there  were  Friday  evening  gatherings,  —  "  osten 
sibly  for  whist,  at  the  house  of  each  of  the  party 
in  turn,"  as  Underwood  tells  us  in  the  The  Poet 
and  the  Man.  The  whist  club  included  Lowell, 
Carter,  John  Bartlett,  John  Holmes,  and  other 
friends  and  neighbors  of  Underwood.  Then  there 
were  very  informal  dinners  in  Boston,  nearly  al 
ways  attended  by  him  and  Lowell,  and  often  by 
Edmund  Quincy,  Francis  Parkman,  and  Dr. 
Holmes.  Such  were  some  of  his  associates,  and 
all  who  knew  him  will  attest  how  generous  he  was 
in  sharing  old  friendships  with  new  friends.  If 
never  any  false  pride  deterred  him  from  making 
his  friends  useful  to  him,  he  had  the  right  of  one 
who  was  equally  ready  to  serve  them  or  to  make 
them  useful  to  one  another.  One  especial  favor 
which  he  would  have  done  me  I  recall  with  min 
gled  gratitude  and  regret.  Hearing  that  I  was 
intending  to  go  abroad  in  the  spring  of  1855,  he 
interested  himself  in  my  plans,  and  one  morning 
met  me  with  a  significantly  uplifted  finger,  and 
the  startling  announcement,  "  It  is  all  arranged ; 
you  are  going  with  Mr.  Lowell ! " 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  239 

Startling  indeed,  for  although  I  knew  that  Mr. 
Lowell,  lately  appointed  professor  of  modern  lan 
guages  in  Harvard  University,  to  succeed  Mr. 
Longfellow,  was  to  have  a  year  of  study  in  Europe 
before  assuming  the  duties  of  that  position,  I  had 
not  conceived  the  possibility  of  having  him  for  a 
fellow  passenger. 

"  I  have  talked  it  over  with  him.  He  is  going 
in  a  sailing-vessel,  and  you  two  will  probably  be 
the  only  passengers.  Don't  say  a  word  against 
it !  "  Underwood  went  on,  as  I  murmured  some 
thing  about  different  arrangements.  "  Take  my 
advice,  —  cancel  them  ;  give  up  everything  else 
for  this  rare  chance." 

Alas,  those  different  arrangements  !  My  friend 
Monroe  (mentioned  in  the  preceding  chapter)  was 
going  abroad  with  three  Spanish-American  youths 
to  superintend  their  education  in  Paris,  and  I  had 
engaged  to  accompany  them.  Neither  he  nor 
they  could  speak  French,  and  my  familiarity 
with  that  language  was  depended  upon  to  aid  in 
establishing  them  in  the  great  foreign  metropolis. 
Time  was  important  to  them,  and  they  were 
to  make  the  voyage  in  a  steamer.  I  should 
myself  have  preferred  the  more  leisurely  and  less 
expensive  passage ;  and  I  knew  how  delightful 
as  well  as  profitable  to  me,  with  my  imperfect 
education  and  unsettled  literary  aims,  would  be 


240  MY  OWN   STORY 

a  month's  daily  intercourse  with  a  finished  man 
like  Lowell,  in  the  vast  and  unbroken  seclusion 
of  the  ocean.  But  I  could  not  well  change  my 
plans.  Underwood  called  me  an  idiot,  as  perhaps 
I  was.  But  he  did  not  weary  of  serving  me ; 
and  I  cannot  forbear  the  pleasure  of  recording  an 
other  instance  of  his  active  friendship.  When  I 
came  home,  a  year  later,  with  the  manuscript  of 
Neighbor  Jackwood  in  my  trunk,  he  took  a  lively 
interest  in  putting  it  through  the  press  ;  and  it 
was  afterwards  through  his  mediation  that  I  was 
engaged  to  make  a  dramatic  version  of  it  for  the 
Boston  Museum  stage. 

IV 

Boston  had  as  yet  no  magazine  that  could  com 
mand  the  united  support  of  the  best  writers  and 
of  an  appreciative  public.  The  Dial,  started  in 
1840,  with  such  contributors  as  Emerson,  Theo 
dore  Parker,  and  Margaret  Fuller,  was  designed 
as  a  vent  to  the  new  wine  of  Transcendentalism, 
and  commended  itself  chiefly  to  the  few  who  had 
felt  the  fine  intoxication  of  that  ferment.  It  was 
near  its  last  days  when,  in  1843,  Lowell  and  his 
friend  Robert  Carter  started  The  Pioneer,  with 
Poe  and  Hawthorne  in  its  list  of  contributors ; 
which  also  failed  for  the  lack  of  something  behind 
it  more  substantial  than  enthusiasm  and  genius. 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  241 

Up  to  the  time  I  write  of  there  had  been  no  other 
noteworthy  venture  of  the  sort.  There  was,  in 
deed,  the  scholarly  and  exclusive  North  Ameri 
can  Review,  an  able  quarterly,  which  had  not  yet 
metamorphosed  itself  to  a  monthly  and  emigrated. 
Philadelphia  had  its  three  graces,  Graham's,  Go- 
dey's,  and  Sartain's,  and  New  York  its  old  Knick 
erbocker,  new  Harper's,  and  Putnam's ;  why  then 
should  not  Boston  be  represented  by  a  monthly 
of  her  own,  worthy  of  her  literary  reputation,  and 
of  the  authors  who  stood  ready  to  contribute  to  its 
pages  ?  This  was  a  question  one  often  heard  dis 
cussed  ;  the  idea  was  in  the  air,  as  they  say,  like 
so  many  ideas  that  wait  for  the  right  hour  and  the 
right  man  for  their  materialization. 

The  man  in  this  case  was  Underwood,  whose 
position  made  him  a  connecting  link  between  a 
circle  of  brilliant  writers  and  a  publishing  firm 
of  enterprise  and  reputation.  He  had  made  an 
earlier  unsuccessful  attempt  to  establish  it,  with 
J.  P.  Jewett  &  Co.  as  publishers  ;  and  he  now 
talked  it  over  again  with  his  literary  friends,  on 
the  one  hand,  particularly  with  Professor  Lowell ; 
and  with  Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.,  on  the  other, 
particularly  with  the  "Co."  Mr.  Sampson  was 
then  in  feeble  health,  and  practically  out  of  the 
business.  Mr.  Phillips,  affable  but  dignified,  had 
a  glacial  atmosphere  when  urged  to  consider  pro- 


242  MY   OWN    STORY 

positions  which  his  judgment  failed  to  approve, 
and  Underwood  found  his  cold  side  when  he 
talked  to  him  of  the  magazine.  The  "Co."  in 
those  days  was  Mr.  William  Lee,  then  a  young 
man,  later  of  the  firm  of  Lee  &  Shepard.  He  and 
Underwood  were  on  intimate  terms ;  and  when 
Underwood  came  in,  electrically  charged,  from 
conferences  with  his  Cambridge  friends,  he  found 
Lee  a  good  conductor.  The  two  partners  were 
in  the  habit  of  going  out  to  lunch  together ;  and 
in  that  hour  of  relaxation  the  junior  would  some 
times  bring  up  the  subject  of  the  proposed  mag 
azine,  arguing  that  they  ought  not  to  miss  so 
magnificent  an  opportunity.  The  cooperation  of 
Lowell,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Emerson,  Haw 
thorne,  Holmes,  —  a  dazzling  array  of  names,  — 
was  assured  ;  and  no  doubt  that  of  the  then  most 
popular  writer  in  the  world,  a  woman,  could  be  ob 
tained.  Warming  by  degrees,  the  senior  at  last 
said  he  would  consult  Mrs.  Stowe. 

V 

Four  or  five  years  before,  the  manuscript  of 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  or  rather  the  scrapbook  con 
taining  the  newspaper  chapters  clipped  from  the 
National  Era,  had  been  offered  to  Messrs.  Phillips, 
Sampson  &  Co.  for  publication  in  book  form.  The 
firm  had  at  that  time  a  large  Southern  trade, 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  243 

which  they  feared  would  be  imperiled  by  the  ap 
pearance  of  their  imprint  on  the  title-page  of  that 
flaming  antislavery  tract  in  the  guise  of  fiction. 
Nobody  could  have  foreseen  that  Uncle  Tom  was 
to  create  for  itself  a  book  trade  of  more  value  in 
a  single  year  than  the  ordinary  trade  of  any  house 
for  a  decade ;  so  that  we  need  not  marvel  at  the 
seeming  short-sightedness  of  Mr.  Phillips  when, 
after  a  brief  consultation  with  his  partners,  he  de 
clined  the  proffered  book  with  his  customary 
courtesy  and  "with  thanks."  It  went  to  an  ob 
scure  Boston  bookseller,  who  had  little  to  risk  by 
the  undertaking,  and,  as  it  proved,  fortune  and 
immense  publicity  to  gain.  Its  success  not  only 
revolutionized  public  sentiment  on  the  subject  of 
slavery ;  it  also  converted  booksellers  from  their 
conservative  views  of  the  relative  value  of  a  South 
ern  trade.  Mrs.  Stowe  could  well  afford  to  for 
give  the  slight  put  upon  a  performance  that  had 
vindicated  itself  so  triumphantly  ;  and  receiving 
an  intimation  that  Mr.  Phillips  would  not  decline 
a  second  work  of  hers,  she  had,  in  1854,  given  the 
firm  her  Sunny  Memories,  following  it  in  1856 
with  the  antislavery  novel,  Dred. 

The  publisher  and  the  authoress  were  on  exceed 
ingly  friendly  terms,  and  Mrs.  Stowe  rarely  came 
to  town  without  calling  upon  Mr.  Phillips.  It 
was  noticeable  that  while  she  gave  to  some  of  the 


244  MY  OWN   STORY 

humble  frequenters  of  the  Winter  Street  store  one 
or  two  careless  fingers,  the  whole  of  the  little  hand 
that  had  written  the  most  famous  book  of  modern 
times  went  out  very  graciously  to  him.  When  he 
mentioned  to  her  the  project  of  the  new  magazine, 
she  received  it  with  instant  and  cordial  approval, 
and  promised  it  her  earnest  support.  The  pub 
lisher  hesitated  no  longer;  a  chain  of  agencies 
had  accomplished  what  might  never  have  come 
to  pass  had  either  one  of  them  been  absent.  I 
remember  Underwood's  radiant  countenance  when 
one  morning  he  announced  to  me  in  strictest  con 
fidence  that  the  proposed  publication  was  finally 
decided  upon ;  that  Lowell  was  to  be  editor  in 
chief,  and  that  he  was  to  be  Lowell's  assistant. 
I  dare  say  my  own  face  grew  radiant,  too,  when 
he  went  on  to  say  that  a  contribution  from  me 
would  be  expected  for  the  first  number. 

VI 

The  new  venture  was  not  yet  named,  and  while 
all  of  us  who  were  in  the  secret  were  ransacking 
our  wits  for  a  good  title,  Dr.  Holmes,  who  seemed 
ever  ready  with  the  right  thing  at  the  right  mo 
ment,  christened  it  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Early  in  June,  1857,  Underwood  went  abroad 
in  the  interest  of  the  forthcoming  magazine,  taking 
letters  to  the  foremost  British  from  the  best-known 


THE   ATLANTIC    MONTHLY  245 

American  writers.  Emerson  alone,  in  a  charac 
teristic  note,  declined  to  furnish  the  desired  in 
troductions.  "  Since  my  foreign  correspondents 
have  ceased  sending  their  friends  to  me,  it  seems 
hardly  fair,"  he  wrote,  "  that  I  should  accredit  any 
of  mine  to  them."  It  was  Underwood's  first  trip 
to  Europe,  and  the  mission  was  very  greatly  to  his 
mind. 

It  was  the  intention  to  issue  the  initial  number 
a  month  or  two  before  it  actually  appeared,  and  it 
was  to  open  with  the  first  chapters  of  a  serial 
story  by  Mrs.  Stowe.  This  she  was  unable  to  fur 
nish,  hindered,  I  think,  by  some  domestic  calamity. 
Then  came  the  financial  panic  of  that  year,  and  it 
was  feared  the  publication  might  have  to  go  over 
to  the  next  year,  or  be  postponed  indefinitely,  —  a 
peculiarly  dismal  prospect  to  writers  whose  con 
tributions  had  been  accepted.  Few  people  were 
aware  how  narrowly  the  great  publishing  house 
escaped  collapse  in  that  tempestuous  time.  It 
was  October  when  the  delayed  first  number  ap 
peared,  bearing  date  November,  1857. 

In  this  age  of  magazines,  great  and  small,  when 
nobody  is  surprised  to  hear  of  new  ones  starting 
up  every  few  months,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  of 
the  wide  interest  excited  by  the  advent  of  the  long- 
expected  Atlantic.  The  articles  were  unsigned, 
which  Mr.  Phillips  himself  thought  a  mistaken 


246  MY   OWN    STORY 

policy,  with  so  resplendent  a  group  of  names  that 
might  have  served  to  emblazon  the  announce 
ments.  The  publishers'  self-denial  found  compen 
sation,  however,  in  the  interest  of  the  riddles  of 
authorship  which  the  public  was  each  month  in 
vited  to  solve.  That  of  some  of  the  principal 
articles  was  generally  an  open  secret,  while  the 
guesses  as  to  others  were  often  amusing  enough  ; 
as  when  a  poem  by  a  little  known  writer  was 
copied  and  went  the  rounds  of  the  press  attributed 
to  Longfellow  or  Emerson,  —  an  incident  not  cal 
culated  to  please  either  him  who  was  thus  deprived 
of  his  due  credit  (as  I  can  attest  from  my  own  ex 
perience),  or  the  other  who  had  a  doubtful  honor 
thrust  upon  him. 

In  place  of  the  hoped-for  chapters  of  a  serial, 
Mrs.  Stowe  had  in  the  first  number  only  a  short 
story,  The  Mourning  Veil,  which  was  disappointing. 
When  asked  why  so  slight  a  sketch  had  been 
admitted,  Underwood  replied,  "  When  a  boy  goes 
a-fishing  and  catches  a  small  fish,  he  puts  it  into 
his  basket  for  luck,  hoping  to  catch  a  big  one  by 
and  by."  The  magazine  caught  a  big  one  indeed 
when,  a  few  months  later,  The  Minister's  Wooing 
began  to  appear  in  its  pages. 

To  that  first  number  Emerson  contributed,  be 
sides  an  essay,  four  short  poems,  one  of  them  the 
mystical  Brahma,  which  was  to  be  more  talked 


THE   ATLANTIC    MONTHLY  247 

about  and  puzzled  over  and  parodied  than  any 
other  poem  of  sixteen  lines  published  within  my 
recollection.  "  What  does  it  mean  ? "  was  the 
question  readers  everywhere  asked;  and  if  one 
had  the  reputation  of  seeing  a  little  way  into  the 
Concord  philosophy,  he  was  liable  at  any  time  to 
be  stopped  on  the  street  by  some  perplexed  in 
quirer,  who  would  draw  him  into  the  nearest  door 
way,  produce  a  crumpled  newspaper  clipping  from 
the  recesses  of  a  waistcoat  pocket,  and  with  knit 
ted  brows  exclaim,  "  Here  !  you  think  you  under 
stand  Emerson ;  now  tell  me  what  all  this  is 
about,  —  ( If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays,'  "  and 
so  forth. 

Longfellow  contributed  his  beautiful  tribute  to 
Florence  Nightingale,  Santa  Filomena;  Lowell 
had  a  versified  fable  and  a  sonnet ;  and  there  was 
a  paper  by  Motley,  whose  early  novels  of  Morton's 
Hope  and  Merry  Mount  had  been  forgotten,  while 
his  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic  had  suddenly 
placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  living  historians. 
But  the  great  surprise  of  the  number  was  a  con 
tribution  which,  if  not  by  a  new  hand,  showed  that 
a  new  force  had  entered  into  our  literature ;  the 
first  of  a  series  of  papers  of  inimitable  wit  and 
brilliancy,  by  a  hand  that  never  seemed  to  grow 
old  nor  to  lose  its  wonderful  facility,  until  it  was 
laid  to  rest  in  Mount  Auburn,  —  the  hand  of  the 


248  MY   OWN    STORY 

kindly  and  beloved  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- 
Table. 

I  was  the  youngest,  and,  with  a  single  excep 
tion,  am  now  the  sole  survivor  of  the  group  of 
contributors  to  that  first  number. 

Underwood  enjoyed  greatly  his  position  on  the 
magazine.  Every  article  offered  passed  through 
his  hands,  but  though  he  possessed  unlimited 
power  of  rejection,  the  power  of  final  acceptance 
rested  solely  with  Lowell.  Yet  Underwood  was 
not  merely  the  coarse  sieve  this  might  imply.  He 
often  made  up  the  numbers,  subject,  however,  to 
Lowell's  approval ;  he  conferred  with  authors,  and 
he  was  himself  also  a  contributor.  He  had  done 
a  useful  work  in  uniting  the  forces  that  combined 
to  originate  the  magazine,  but  the  character  of  it 
was  entirely  the  creation  of  Lowell. 

VII 

The  death  of  Mr.  Phillips  and  the  subsequent 
breaking  up  of  the  firm  in  1859  resulted  in  the 
severance  of  Underwood's  connection  with  the 
magazine.  He  soon  found  other  employment,  and 
held  successively,  under  Cleveland's  two  adminis 
trations,  the  positions  of  consul  at  Glasgow  and  at 
Edinburgh. 

Abroad,  his  fine  presence,  his  public  addresses 
and  after-dinner  speeches,  and  more  particularly 


FRANCIS   H.    UNDERWOOD 


THE   ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  249 

his  lectures  on  American  Men  of  Letters,  made 
him  a  prominent  figure  in  society  ;  and  the  Uni 
versity  of  Glasgow  recognized  his  distinction  by 
conferring  upon  him  the  degree  of  LL.  D. 

He  had  a  varied,  an  interesting,  and  on  the 
whole  an  enviable  career,  which  closed  in  Edin 
burgh  in  1894.  He  found  unfailing  enjoyment  in 
literature,  music,  and  art,  in  friendship  and  in 
congenial  labor ;  and  his  love  of  nature  remained 
fresh  and  vigorous  to  the  last.  He  wrote  bio 
graphical  sketches  of  Longfellow,  Whittier,  and 
Lowell ;  compiled  handbooks  of  American  and 
English  literature ;  and  was  the  author  of  two  or 
three  novels.  Undoubtedly,  his  representative 
work,  the  work  by  which  Dr.  Underwood  will  be 
best  remembered,  is  Quabbin,  the  Story  of  a 
Small  Town,  his  own  native  Enfield,  written  in 
Glasgow  in  an  interval  of  leisure  between  his  two 
consulships.  In  the  work  on  which  he  was  en 
gaged  at  the  time  of  his  death,  The  Builders  of 
American  Literature,  only  one  volume  of  which 
was  completed  and  published,  occur  these  words 
regarding  an  earlier  man  of  letters :  "  The  literary 
world  has  need  of  such  accomplished  and  indus 
trious  writers,  and  could  often  spare  more  bril 
liant  men,"  —  words  that  will  apply  with  equal 
justice  to  Francis  Henry  Underwood  himself. 


250  MY   OWN   STORY 

VIII 

The  starting  of  The  Atlantic  was  to  me  an  event 
of  vital  interest  and  importance.  It  was  a  distinc 
tion  for  a  young  writer  to  appear  in  its  pages. 
The  pay  for  contributions  was  for  those  days  un- 
precedentedly  liberal,  and  the  hospitality  of  its 
covers  afforded  a  stimulus  to  high  endeavor.  I 
contributed  to  the  early  volumes  poems,  stories, 
sketches  of  travel,  and  one  political  paper,  We  are 
a  Nation,  into  which  I  poured  the  fervor  of  my 
patriotic  feeling,  on  the  second  election  of  Lincoln. 

I  had  followed  as  faithfully  as  I  could  Major 
Noah's  advice  as  to  writing  prose  instead  of  poetry. 
Having  burned  my  metrical  romances,  I  wrote 
verse  only  at  intervals  for  the  next  ten  years. 
Then  with  the  ampler  leisure  gained  by  the  publi 
cation  of  my  books,  I  returned  to  my  early  love. 
I  find,  on  looking  back,  that  I  contributed  to  the 
first  volumes  of  The  Atlantic  articles  in  verse 
oftener  than  anything  else,  among  them  some  of 
my  most  prosperous  poems,  At  Sea,  Midsummer, 
The  Pewee,  and  another  that  had  such  unusual 
fortunes,  and  regarding  which  I  am  so  often  ques 
tioned,  that  I  will  give  a  brief  account  of  it  here. 

As  long  ago  as  the  summer  of  1855  I  saw  in  the 
streets  of  Paris  a  strolling  showman  with  a  troupe 
of  six  trained  dogs.  The  appearance  of  the  man, 


THE   ATLANTIC    MONTHLY  25! 

his  good-humored  drollery,  evidently  masking  more 
serious  traits  of  character,  and  his  almost  human 
relations  with  his  patient,  dumb  friends,  must  have 
impressed  me  more  than  I  was  aware  ;  for,  after 
my  return  to  America  the  year  following,  he  came 
up  in  my  mind  as  the  subject  of  a  dramatic  sketch, 
which  soon  began  to  sing  itself  in  rhyme.  I  dis 
carded  five  of  the  dogs,  in  order  to  concentrate 
attention  and  sympathy  upon  one ;  and  allowed 
the  master  to  tell  his  own  story,  with  which  I 
seemed  to  have  little  more  to  do  than  to  put  it  into 
form.  When  about  half  written  it  was  thrown 
aside  for  work  I  deemed  more  immediately  impor 
tant,  and  the  fragment  lay  neglected  in  my  desk  for 
two  or  three  years.  Then  one  day  I  chanced  to 
look  it  over  just  before  setting  out  on  a  long  ram 
ble  ;  more  stanzas  began  to  link  themselves  to 
those  freshly  called  up  in  my  memory,  and  by  the 
time  I  returned  from  my  walk  I  had  the  poem  ready 
to  commit  to  paper  in  its  nearly  completed  shape. 
I  was  then  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  it ; 
for  I  did  not  imagine  that  the  only  magazine  I  was 
in  those  days  sending  poems  to  would  welcome 
anything  so  vagabondish  as  The  Vagabonds.  I 
read  it  to  a  few  friends,  who  listened  to  it  with 
moist  eyes,  but  who  confirmed  my  misgivings  as 
to  its  having  sufficient  dignity  for  The  Atlantic. 
So  it  went  back  into  my  desk,  to  lie  there  two  or 


252  MY   OWN   STORY 

three  years  longer,  until  one  who  had  come  to  be 
nearer  to  me  than  all  others,  reading  it  or  hearing 
it  read,  with  joy  and  tears  declared  that  it  must  be 
published  at  once.  I  took  her  advice,  but  in  send 
ing  it  forth  I  was  careful  to  accompany  it  with 
another  poem,  sufficiently  literary,  By  the  River, 
which  I  thought  would  serve  to  keep  my  Vagabonds 
in  countenance.  Proofs  of  the  one  in  which  I  had 
least  confidence  were  the  first  to  come  to  me  for 
correction,  and  on  a  margin  appeared  the  surpris 
ing  note  in  blue  pencil,  —  "  Perfectly  beautiful, 
nothing  could  be  finer  in  its  way  —  whom  by  ?  " 
the  proof-reader's  query  addressed  to  the  editor, 
The  Atlantic  contributions  in  those  days  being  un 
signed. 

Once  more  I  heard  from  it  before  it  reached  the 
public,  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  (then  editor)  having 
given  an  advance  copy  to  an  elocutionist,  and  heard 
him  read  it  with  "  wonderful  effect,"  he  assured  me, 
one  evening  at  Mr.  Longfellow's  house  in  Cam 
bridge.  Fields  then  predicted  for  it  a  great  suc 
cess  on  lyceum  platforms ;  astonishing  me  by 
saying  that,  for  public  recitation,  there  had  been 
nothing  like  it  since  Poe's  Raven. 

To  Fields  I  was  indebted  for  the  name  of  the 
dog,  "  Roger  ;  "  a  circumstance  I  had  forgotten, 
but  which  was  recalled  to  mind  when,  some  time 
after,  Mrs.  Fields  showed  me  in  their  house  on 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  253 

Charles  Street  an  album  of  autograph  poems,  — 
many  of  them  by  writers  the  most  famous  of  the 
day,  —  bound  up  with  which  I  discovered  the 
original  manuscript  copy  of  The  Vagabonds,  with 
the  word  "  Roger  "  in  Fields's  well-known  hand, 
written  over  the  less  euphonious  name  (whatever 
it  may  have  been)  that  I  had  bestowed  on  the  wan 
dering  fiddler's  companion. 

The  poem  received  universal  commendation 
from  the  press,  with  a  single  noticeable  excep 
tion  ;  almost  every  writer  has  his  one  especial, 
never-failing,  unrelenting,  untiring  assailant  in  the 
ranks  of  the  critics,  and  I  had  mine.  The  maga 
zine  number  containing  it  (March,  1863)  had  been 
out  a  short  time,  when  my  oldest  sister  wrote  to 
me  from  Illinois  to  ask  if  I  could  tell  her  anything 
about  the  author  of  that  strange  poem,  The  Vaga 
bonds.  She  went  on  to  say,  "  I  cannot  help  feel 
ing  that  it  was  written  by  a  person  who  has  gone 
through  some  such  terrible  experience  of  intem 
perance  and  misery  as  he  describes."  I  hastened 
to  inform  her  that  the  author  was  a  no  more  dis 
sipated  wretch  than  her  own  younger  brother, 
whose  art  she  had  complimented  in  suspecting 
his  sobriety  of  character. 

The  piece  was  taken  up  by  public  readers  all 
over  the  country,  and  I  soon  heard  of  it  in  places 
as  remote  as  Melbourne  and  Shanghai.  Often 


254  MY  OWN   STORY 

one  would  come  to  recite  it  to  me,  under  the  pre 
tense  of  asking  for  criticism  and  suggestion,  but 
in  reality  to  get  some  written  word  of  approval 
that  might  help  him  with  the  public.  To  one 
who  brought  letters  commendatory  of  his  art 
from  such  men  as  Horace  Greeley,  Dr.  Bellows, 
and  Bayard  Taylor,  I  said,  with  the  absolute  sin 
cerity  I  used  towards  all,  —  "I  have  heard  others 
deliver  the  poem,  and  I  must  do  you  the  justice 
to  declare  that  I  never  heard  any  one  begin  to  read 
it  as  badly  as  you  do."  His  theatrical  mannerisms 
and  false  intonations  caused  me  to  ask  to  look 
again  at  the  letters ;  but  they  were  undoubtedly 
genuine.  How  he  could  ever  have  obtained  them 
was  a  marvel  and  a  mystery.  After  some  dis 
cussion,  I  said  to  him  at  parting,  "  You  feel  a  little 
hard  towards  me  now,  but  some  time  you  will  see 
that  I  have  done  the  kindest  thing  in  my  power 
by  telling  you  the  truth."  He  went  from  me  to 
an  eminent  elocutionist,  recited  The  Vagabonds 
to  him,  elicited  his  criticisms,  and  then  explained 
why  he  wished  for  them  :  "  I  lately  read  it  to  the 
author,  and  was  unwilling  to  accept  his  judgment 
of  my  rendering,  but  you  have  corroborated  it  in 
every  particular." 

The  most  powerful  interpretation  of  the  poem 
I  ever  listened  to  in  private  was  by  that  exceed 
ingly  clever  personator,  Sol  Smith  Russell ;  the 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  255 

best  public  ones  were  by  Professor  Churchill,  of  the 
Andover  Theological  Seminary,  and  James  E.  Mur- 
dock,  the  actor.  It  was  even  taken  up  by  women 
elocutionists,  one  of  whom,  a  talented  lecturer  and 
entertainer,  produced  with  it  an  effect  that  was  at 
least  novel,  through  the  contrast  between  the  vaga- 
bondish  character  represented  and  her  own  ele 
gant  manners  and  fashionable  attire. 

A  holiday  edition  of  the  poem,  with  drawings 
by  F.  O.  C.  Darley,  was  brought  out  at  Christmas 
time,  1863  ;  and  I  afterwards  made  The  Vaga 
bonds  the  leading  poem  of  my  first  volume  of 
collected  verse. 

IX 

Of  my  Atlantic  stories  the  most  important 
was  Coupon  Bonds,  which  after  its  appearance  in 
two  numbers  of  the  magazine  (Sept.  and  Oct., 
1865)  was  in  such  demand  that  a  large  separate  edi 
tion  was  issued  in  paper  covers.  Bankers  became 
interested  in  its  distribution  ;  and  one  of  the  most 
active  in  popularizing  the  enormous  loans  necessi 
tated  by  the  war,  himself  once  assured  me  that 
the  story  had  an  appreciable  influence  in  stimu 
lating  confidence  in  the  government  and  its 
securities. 

A  play  constructed  from  it  mainly  by  the  use 
of  paste  and  scissors  was  brought  out  by  Miss 


256  MY   OWN   STORY 

Alcott  and  her  friends  in  Concord ;  other  versions 
were  produced  in  different  places,  the  author  of 
one  of  which  threatened  to  sue  the  chief  promoter 
of  the  Concord  play  (Mr.  G.  B.  Bartlett)  for  in 
fringement  of  copyright.  I  then  made  a  careful 
dramatic  version,  which  I  copyrighted  and  pub 
lished  ;  it  was  for  a  long  time  in  lively  demand, 
and  is  still  acted  by  amateur  companies. 

I  remember  but  one  serious  criticism  of  the 
naturalness  of  the  incidents  and  characters  in  the 
story ;  and  that  was  a  sound  one,  from  the  critic's 
point  of  view.  Some  friends  of  mine  once  visited 
a  well-to-do  Western  farmer,  who  maintained  that 
nobody  was  ever  so  anxious  about  the  safety  of 
valuable  documents  as  the  Ducklows  were  about 
their  coupon  bonds.  Being  left  by  themselves  in 
the  family  sitting-room,  one  of  the  party  took  up 
a  book  from  the  table  and  dropped  out  of  it  upon 
the  carpet  a  folded  paper.  It  was  a  thousand-dol 
lar  government  bond  ;  and  probably  not  the  only 
one  that  might  have  been  picked  up,  lying  about 
the  house. 

The  sketches  of  travel  I  contributed  to  The 
Atlantic  were  two,  descriptive  of  the  battle-fields 
of  Gettysburg  and  the  Wilderness  which  I  visited 
after  the  close  of  the  war,  as  I  shall  relate  farther 
on  ;  A  Carpet  Bagger  in  Pennsylvania,  three  papers 
on  the  coal  and  oil  regions  of  that  State  in  1869  ; 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  257 

and  in  the  following  year  three  articles  giving  an 
account  of  a  trip  to  the  wilds  of  Minnesota  and  to 
a  then  new  settlement  at  the  head  of  Lake  Su 
perior,  —  the  rough  cocoon  of  the  city  of  sub 
sequent  marvelous  growth  and  prosperity,  Duluth. 

X 

In  the  mean  time  had  occurred  an  event  to 
which  I  have  briefly  alluded  in  my  notice  of 
Underwood,  but  which  deserves  fuller  mention, 
since  it  was  to  me,  at  the  time  of  it,  almost  a 
calamity.  The  first  publishers  of  The  Atlantic 
were,  as  I  have  stated,  likewise  the  publishers  of 
my  books.  The  death  of  Mr.  Sampson  and  that 
of  Mr.  Phillips,  which  took  place  soon  after,  led 
to  the  breaking  up  of  the  firm,  in  the  fall  of  1859, 
and  the  sale  at  auction  of  its  enormous  stock  of 
books  and  sheets  and  stereotype  plates.  My  own 
books  went  to  a  New  York  house,  that  of  a  step 
mother,  so  to  speak,  very  different  from  the  home 
where  they  had  been  born,  their  exile  from  which 
I  felt  as  a  personal  grief. 

Fortunately  The  Atlantic  went  into  good  hands, 
those  of  Ticknor  &  Fields ;  regarding  which  ac 
quisition  by  the  latter  firm  it  is  interesting  to 
note  that  it  was  a  project  of  the  elder  and,  one 
would  have  supposed,  the  more  conservative  mem 
ber,  while  it  was  opposed  by  the  junior,  whose 


258  MY  OWN   STORY 

literary  tastes  and  associations  with  authors  would 
have  seemed  likely  to  render  him  the  more  ear 
nest  of  the  two  in  its  favor.  The  price  looked 
formidably  large  for  those  days,  and  Mr.  Fields 
deemed  it  too  hazardous  an  undertaking.  If  he 
had  been  on  the  ground  he  might  have  thought 
differently  ;  but  he  was  abroad,  and  could  be  con 
sulted  only  by  transatlantic  communication.  The 
sum  involved  ($  10,000)  was  in  truth  a  moderate 
one,  considering  the  enormous  prestige  of  the 
reputation  of  the  magazine,  and  of  its  galaxy  of 
writers,  and  in  view  of  all  the  advantages  secured 
to  the  house  making  the  purchase ;  at  all  events 
the  senior's  courage  and  sound  judgment  were 
abundantly  vindicated.  My  contributions  to  it 
continued,  and  resulted  for  me  later  in  intimate 
business  relations  with  that  firm  and  its  successors. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CUDJO'S    CAVE   AND    OTHER  WAR   STORIES  —  A 
NEW   HOME 

I 

POLITICAL  convulsion  succeeded  the  dissolution 
of  the  firm  of  Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.,  and 
brought  new  discouragement,  in  addition  to  that 
caused  by  the  loss  of  their  friendly  interest  in  my 
books.  The  Southern  sky  was  black  with  clouds 
that  burst  in  the  Civil  War.  I  was  still  writing 
for  the  magazines,  and  also  applying  myself, 
rather  languidly,  to  another  work  of  fiction,  when 
the  great  national  conflict,  which  had  set  back 
the  waters  of  my  literary  course,  forced  them  with 
accumulated  impetus  into  a  new  channel. 

Having  allayed  the  excitement  which  impelled 
me  to  write  one  antislavery  novel,  I  did  not  enter 
tain  the  possibility  of  ever  being  moved  to  write 
another.  Political  events  rushed  rapidly  to  a  crisis, 
which  came  with  the  election  of  Lincoln,  and 
brought  to  exultant  souls  the  certainty  that  the 
encroachments  of  the  slave  power  had  at  last 
reached  a  barrier  forever  impossible  for  it  to  over- 


26o  MY   OWN   STORY 

pass.  The  war  of  secession  was  a  war  of  emanci 
pation  from  the  start.  It  could  not  be  otherwise, 
whether  the  actors  engaged  in  it  wished  it  so  or 
not ;  campaigns  and  acts  of  Congress,  battles  and 
proclamations,  victories  and  defeats,  were  not  so 
much  causes  or  hindrances  as  eddies  of  the  stream 
in  whose  mighty  movement  they  were  formed  and 
swept  along. 

I  was  eager  to  bear  my  own  humble  part  in  the 
momentous  conflict,  and  took  up  again  the  only 
weapon  I  had  any  skill  to  use.  I  wrote  a  patriotic 
story,  The  Drummer  Boy ;  not  especially  designed 
as  an  attack  upon  slavery,  more  than  any  word 
uttered  or  blow  struck  for  the  Union  was  a  word 
or  blow  aimed  at  the  enemy  striving  to  destroy  it. 
But  the  old  heat  was  fevering  me,  and  no  sooner 
was  The  Drummer  Boy  hurried  on  his  mission 
than  I  flung  myself  upon  the  writing  of  as  fiery 
an  antislavery  fiction  as  I  was  capable  of  compass 
ing.  The  country  had  been  but  slowly  awakening 
to  a  consciousness  of  the  truth  that  the  slave  was 
not  only  to  be  freed ;  he  was  also  to  cease  to  be 
a  merely  passive  occasion  of  the  contest,  and  to 
become  our  active  ally.  Too  many  calling  them 
selves  patriots  still  opposed  emancipation  and  the 
arming  of  the  blacks,  and  clung  tremblingly  to  the 
delusion  that  the  Union  and  slavery  might  both 
be  preserved.  The  idol-house  of  the  old  preju- 


WAR   STORIES  261 

dice  was  shattered,  but  not  demolished.     I  was 
impatient  to  hurl  my  firebrand  into  the  breach. 

II 

In  this  case  I  had  a  title  for  my  novel  before  a 
page  of  it  was  written.  Wishing  to  bring  into  it 
some  incidents  of  guerrilla  warfare  and  of  the 
persecutions  of  the  Union  men  in  the  border  slave 
States,  I  cast  about  for  some  central  fact  to  give 
unity  to  the  action,  and  form  at  the  same  time  a 
picturesque  feature  of  the  narrative.  The  idea  of 
a  cave  somehow  suggested  itself,  and  I  chose  for 
the  scene  a  region  where  such  things  exist.  As 
no  especial  economy  was  required  in  its  construc 
tion,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  have  a  cavern  of 
some  magnificence ;  or  rather,  I  thought  little 
about  it, — the  whole  thing  flashed  upon  me  like 
a  vision,  as  I  lay  awake  one  night,  with  my  im 
agination  aflame,  lighting  up  that  strange  world 
under  the  eyelids  so  vivid  amid  the  surrounding 
dark.  The  cave,  the  burning  forest,  and  the  fire- 
lit  waterfall,  with  much  of  the  plan  of  the  drama, 
all  came  to  me,  as  I  recall,  in  those  two  or  three 
hours  of  intensely  concentrated  thought.  I 
adopted  Cave  at  once  as  part  of  my  title,  but  felt 
that  it  was  necessary  to  make  some  felicitous 
addition.  I  was  some  time,  indeed  many  nights 
and  days,  in  finding  a  fit  name  for  my  runaway 


262  MY  OWN   STORY 

slave,  who  was  to  inhabit  the  cavern  and  help  me 
out  with  my  title.  Cudjo  was  finally  decided 
upon  for  him,  and  Cudjo 's  Cave  for  the  book. 
But  the  hero  of  it  was  not  Cudjo,  although  I  no 
longer  shrank  from  giving  a  black  man  that  role. 
Neither  was  it  the  young  Quaker,  turned  fighter ; 
Penn  Hapgood  was  only  the  ostensible  hero.  The 
real  hero,  if  the  story  had  one,  was  the  proud  and 
powerful,  full-blooded  African,  Pomp,  whom  I 
afterwards  carried  forward  into  the  third  and  last 
of  my  war  stories,  The  Three  Scouts. 

Cudjo's  Cave  was  a  partisan  book,  frankly  de 
signed  to  fire  the  Northern  heart.  This  was,  per 
haps,  the  chief  of  its  many  faults.  It  contained 
scenes  of  violence  such  as  I  should  never,  under 
other  circumstances,  have  selected  as  subjects  for 
my  pen.  I  adapted,  but  did  not  invent  them ; 
the  most  sensational  incidents  had  their  counter 
parts  in  the  reign  of  wrath  and  wrong  I  was 
endeavoring  to  hold  up  to  the  abhorrence  of  all 
lovers  of  the  Union  and  haters  of  slavery  and 
secession.  The  art  of  the  book  suffered  also 
from  the  disadvantage  I  labored  under  of  never 
having  visited  the  region  I  described,  or  studied 
the  dialect  of  the  people.  The  result  was  some 
thing  quite  different  from  what  discriminating 
readers  have  noticed  in  Neighbor  Jackwood, 
where,  almost  unconsciously  to  the  author,  the 


WAR   STORIES  263 

dialect  became  so  much  a  part  of  the  characters 
that  no  two  of  them,  not  even  members  of  the 
same  family,  are  made  to  talk  just  alike,  but  each 
has  his  or  her  own  persistent  peculiarities  of 
speech.  The  fault  I  speak  of  lay  deeper,  how 
ever,  than  the  dialect.  The  characters  of  the 
later  novel  were  portrayed  more  from  without ; 
those  of  the  earlier  one,  from  within.  But  though 
lacking  in  true  emotional  depth,  the  inferior  work 
had  an  external  life  and  an  impetuous  movement 
which  gave  it  vogue,  and  enabled  it  to  carry  some 
thing  of  the  political  influence  it  was  intended  to 
convey. 

Ill 

It  was  written  with  great  rapidity  in  the  sum 
mer  and  autumn  of  1863,  and  published  in  Decem 
ber.  It  was  issued  by  a  young  and  enterprising 
firm  that  displayed  considerable  ingenuity  and  no 
little  audacity  in  advertising  it.  Pictures  of  the 
cave  were  on  envelopes  and  posters,  and  I  remem 
ber  a  bookseller's  window  on  Washington  Street 
rendered  attractive  by  a  pile  of  the  freshly  bound 
volumes  erected  in  the  similitude  of  a  cave.  A 
private  letter  to  the  author  from  Secretary  Chase, 
then  at  the  zenith  of  his  fame  as  a  national  finan 
cier,  was  made  to  do  service  in  ways  he  could 
hardly  have  anticipated  any  more  than  I  did  when 


264  MY  OWN   STORY 

the  publishers  obtained  permission  of  him  to  use 
it.  It  was  printed,  and  extensively  copied  by  the 
press,  and  the  interior  of  every  street-car  in  Bos 
ton  was  placarded  with  a  signed  extract  from  it, 
outstaring  the  patient  public  week  after  week  in  a 
manner  that  would  have  made  the  great  Secretary 
wince,  could  he  have  seen  it,  as  it  did  me. 

The  publishers'  methods  combined  with  the 
circumstances  of  the  time  to  secure  immediate 
popularity  for  the  book,  —  a  popularity  it  still  con 
tinues  in  a  measure  to  enjoy,  having  long  outlived 
the  occasion  that  called  it  forth,  and  the  exist 
ence  of  the  firm  that  launched  it  so  successfully. 

In  a  journey  through  the  Southern  States  at 
the  close  of  the  war  (as  will  be  related  in  the  suc 
ceeding  chapter)  I  paid  a  visit  to  East  Tennessee, 
and  was  pleased  to  find  that  I  had  not  gone  far 
wrong  in  my  descriptions  of  the  region  where  the 
scenes  of  the  story  are  laid.  But  I  failed  to  get 
any  authentic  news  of  the  actors  in  it,  or  to  dis 
cover  the  precise  locality  of  the  cave.  I  have 
lately  been  told  that  there  is  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity  of  Cumberland  Gap  a  cave  which  guides 
and  hotel-keepers  claim  as  the  original  and  only 
Cudjo's.  I  have  never  seen  it. 

Before  proceeding  to  write  of  the  Southern 
tour  alluded  to,  it  is  necessary  to  go  back  in  my 
narrative  and  take  up  one  or  two  dropped  stitches. 


A  NEW   HOME  265 

IV 

For  about  eight  years  I  had  my  residence  in 
Boston  at  No.  i  Seaver  Place ;  then,  in  Novem 
ber,  1858,  I  went  to  live  on  Prospect  Hill,  in  Som- 
erville,  in  the  home  of  Mr.  Alonzo  Newton,  —  a 
sightly  abode,  with  the  great  green  billow  of  the 
hill  (since  shorn  away)  rising  beyond,  and  the 
grass-overgrown  ridges  of  the  ancient  fortifica 
tions  not  more  than  two  or  three  minutes'  walk 
from  our  door.  There  Prescott  and  his  compatri 
ots  intrenched  themselves  after  Bunker  Hill ;  and 
from  that  natural  observatory  Washington  must 
have  pondered  the  military  situation  and  his  coun 
try's  dubious  cause,  many  a  summer's  day  during 
the  siege  of  Boston,  and  in  lonely  night  hours, 
looking  off  at  the  lights  of  Boston  town,  and  the 
line  of  rebel  camp-fires  twinkling  here  and  there, 
from  Mystic  River  near  by  to  far-away  Dorches 
ter  Heights. 

The  old  earthworks  were  my  daily  resort,  and 
there  on  the  loftiest  embankment  was  for  years 
a  footpath  which  my  solitary  steps  had  worn  and 
kept  open,  as  in  all  weathers,  under  sun  or  moon 
and  stars,  I  paced  that  quarter-deck  of  the  great 
ship  sailing  the  universal  deep.  There  I  fashioned 
my  poems  or  studied  my  plots  (that  of  Cudjo 
among  them),  walking  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  in 


266  MY  OWN   STORY 

the  deepening  gloom  of  evening,  amidst  a  galaxy 
of  near  and  innumerable  distant  lights  ;  or  by  day, 
with  many  cities  and  villages  outspread  before  and 
around,  the  ribbons  of  two  rivers  flowing  to  form 
their  large  bow  just  at  the  harbor's  gleaming 
throat ;  the  more  distant  sea  flashing  in  the  morn 
ing  sun,  and  the  wide  horizon  undulating  to  wooded 
crests  of  dreamy  blue. 

To  that  home  I  brought  my  young  wife,  Cor 
nelia  Warren,  of  Lowell,  early  in  May,  1 860  ;  and 
there  we  lived,  except  for  absences  long  or  short 
at  the  mountains  or  the  seaside,  and  one  longer 
sojourn  in  West  Cambridge,  until,  after  a  brief 
illness,  she  died  in  March,  1 864,  leaving  one  child, 
a  boy  infant  six  weeks  old.  Of  that  four  years' 
dream  of  happiness,  and  of  her  whose  loveliness 
of  character  had  inspired  it,  I  can  say  no  more  in 
this  place  than  that 

"  Such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me." 

The  baby  boy  —  who,  I  will  add,  inherited 
largely  his  mother's  fairness  of  features  and 
charm  of  character  —  fell  into  such  tender  hands 
that  he  never  knew  the  loss  he  had  sustained. 
He  was  a  tie  that  united  me  more  closely  still  to 
the  Newton  family ;  the  mother  cherished  him 
with  a  mother's  pride  and  love;  and  he  became 
the  special  care  of  the  oldest  daughter,  then  a  girl 


WINDSOR   WARREN   TROWBRIDGE 
In  his  fifth  year 


A   NEW   HOME  267 

of  sixteen,  who  nine  years  later  took  the  vacant 
place  which  I  had  long  thought  would  never  again 
be  filled,  and  became  his  mother  indeed.1 

Meanwhile  I  acquired  the  home  I  now  occupy, 
in  Arlington  (then  West  Cambridge),  and  took 
my  boy  there  with  the  Newton  friends  in  June, 
1865.  It  is  located  on  one  of  the  pleasantest 
streets  in  the  suburbs  of  Boston,  —  a  street  rightly 
named  "  Pleasant."  Hardly  a  week  passed  before 
I  had  my  sail-boat  on  the  lake.  Wild  woods  were 
within  five  minutes'  walk  from  my  dooryard  gate. 
So  perfect  was  my  contentment  in  this  quiet  home 
that  I  could  think  of  no  inducement  that  would 
take  me  farther  from  it  than  Boston,  six  or  seven 
miles  away,  for  at  least  a  year  or  two  to  come. 
Yet  I  was  no  more  than  settled  in  it,  with  my 
first  flowers  blooming  and  my  hens  cackling  in  the 
poultry  yard,  when  I  was  summoned  to  set  off 
on  an  adventure  full  of  uncertainty  and  of  doubt 
ful  duration. 

One  day  early  in  August  I  was  called  upon  by  a 
Hartford  publisher,  Mr.  L.  Stebbins,  who  had  been 
soliciting  me,  by  correspondence,  to  write  a  book 
for  him,  to  be  "  sold  only  by  subscription."  The 
devastating  Civil  War  had  then  recently  closed, 
and  the  subject  of  the  volume  was  to  be  a  descrip- 

1  Windsor  Warren  Trowbridge  died  at  Colorado  Springs,  in 
March,  1884,  having  just  completed  his  20th  year. 


268  MY  OWN   STORY 

tion  of  the  principal  battle-fields  and  the  condition 
of  the  States  lately  in  rebellion.  Mr.  Stebbins 
had  first  proposed  the  work  to  Bayard  Taylor, 
whose  engagements  would  not  permit  him  to  un 
dertake  it,  but  who  said  to  him,  with  an  emphasis 
that  seemed  to  have  been  convincing,  that  I  was 
the  man  for  it.  So  Mr.  Stebbins  had  come  from 
Hartford  to  see  me,  not  at  all  disturbed  by  my 
having  declined  his  proposal  by  letter,  and  think 
ing,  as  he  said,  that  "a  personal  interview  might 
be  useful." 

"It  won't  be  useful  at  all,  Mr.  Stebbins,"  I 
made  answer.  "  I  have  been  only  two  months  in 
my  new  home  here,  and  I  would  n't  leave  it  to 
make  a  rough  journey  through  the  Southern 
States,  at  this  time  of  year,  for  any  inducement 
you  can  hold  out." 

"  It  is  a  favorable  season  for  the  trip,"  he  re 
plied.  "  You  will  go  first  to  Gettysburg,  Cham- 
bersburg,  Harper's  Ferry,  Washington,  and  so  'on 
to  Richmond  ; '  and  by  that  time  it  will  be  cool 
weather." 

To  my  further  objection  that  I  was  writing  for 
Ticknor  &  Fields'  magazines,  and  was  bound  to 
furnish  an  article  every  month  for  one  of  them, 
he  replied,  — 

"  You  can  arrange  that ;  and  I  see  no  reason 
why  you  should  n't  print  in  them  a  few  chapters, 


A  NEW   HOME  269 

as  you  prepare  them  for  the  book,  —  say  five  or 
six ;  they  might  help  to  advertise  it." 

This  was  a  weighty  argument.  Still  I  de 
murred,  laying  stress  upon  the  great  number  of 
books  about  the  South  that  were  sure  to  be  writ 
ten  and  published  during  the  coming  year,  and  on 
the  risk  of  such  an  undertaking. 

"  There  will  be  no  risk  to  you,  as  far  as  money 
matters  are  concerned,"  he  answered  with  quiet 
promptness.  "  All  your  expenses  will  be  paid, 
and  I  think  I  can  make  the  remuneration  satis 
factory." 

I  asked  what  he  meant  by  satisfactory ;  and  he 
named  a  sum  that  interested  me.  In  buying  my 
new  home  I  had  left  a  mortgage  on  the  place 
which  I  expected  to  be  two  or  three  years  in  pay 
ing  off ;  and  here  was  an  opportunity  of  lifting 
the  incumbrance  by  a  few  months'  hard  work, 
and  of  adding,  besides,  a  goodly  sum  to  my  bank 
account.  The  journey  through  parts  of  the  deso 
lated  South,  where  society  was  still  in  a  chaotic 
state,  would  undoubtedly  be  attended  by  hard 
ships,  discomforts,  and  some  danger.  But  it  would 
afford  an  opportunity  of  seeing  those  States  in 
that  tremendous  crisis  of  their  history,  in  the 
paroxysm  intervening  between  the  periods  of  sub 
jugation  and  emancipation  and  of  hardly  yet  at 
tempted  reconstruction.  The  pecuniary  consider- 


270  MY  OWN   STORY 

ation  justified  the  trip,  and  I  saw  advantages  in  it, 
against  which  no  allurements  of  home  and  peace 
ful  pursuits,  or  other  sentimental  reasons,  should 
be  allowed  to  have  weight. 

I  proposed  some  modification  of  the  terms 
offered,  to  which  Mr.  Stebbins  cheerfully  ac 
ceded.  I  conferred  with  Mr.  Fields,  as  to  contri 
butions  to  the  two  magazines  during  my  absence ; 
and  within  a  week's  time  from  my  interview  with 
Mr.  Stebbins  started  off  on  my  journey  with  a  light 
heart  and  no  incumbrance  but  a  traveling  shawl 
and  a  stout  valise. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  SOUTH  AFTER  THE  WAR 


I  PROCEEDED  as  directly  as  possible  to  Gettys 
burg,  where  I  spent  several  days  studying  the 
battle-field,  gathering  anecdotes  of  that  great  and 
decisive  conflict,  and  writing  out  my  observations. 
From  there  I  went  to  Chambersburg,  which  the 
rebel  invaders  had  burnt ;  then  by  the  way  of 
South  Mountain  and  Antietam  to  Harper's  Ferry, 
the  place  of  John  Brown's  sanguinary  last  fight 
and  capture ;  and  thence  to  Charlestown,  the 
scene  of  his  hurried  trial  and  execution. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  any  traces  of  those  clos 
ing  events  in  the  brave  but  visionary  old  man's 
life.  The  jail  in  which  he  was  confined  had  been 
burned  to  the  ground.  The  court  house  was  a 
melancholy  ruin,  abandoned  to  rats  and  toads; 
four  massy  white  brick  pillars,  still  standing,  sup 
ported  a  riddled  roof,  through  which  the  tranquil 
sky  and  gracious  sunshine  smiled.  Names  of 
Union  soldiers  were  scrawled  along  the  walls. 
The  work  of  destruction  had  been  performed  by 


272  MY   OWN   STORY 

the  hands  of  those  hilarious  boys  in  blue  to  the 
tune  of  "John  Brown  "  —  the  swelling  melody  of 
the  song  and  the  accompaniment  of  crashing  tim 
bers  reminding  the  citizens,  who  thought  to  have 
destroyed  the  old  hero,  that  his  "  soul  was  march 
ing  on." 

I  asked  a  bright  young  colored  girl  to  point  out 
the  spot  where  John  Brown's  gallows  stood.  She 
led  across  barren  fields  outside  the  town,  and 
into  a  wilderness  of  flowering  and  seeding  weeds, 
waist  high  to  her  as  she  tramped  on,  parting  them 
before  her  with  her  hands. 

"  Here  is  about  where  it  was,"  she  said,  stop 
ping  in  the  midst  of  the  desolation.  "Nobody 
knows  now  just  where  the  gallows  stood.  There 
was  a  tree  here,  but  that  has  been  cut  down  and 
carried  away,  stump  and  roots  and  all,  by  folks  that 
wanted  something  to  remember  John  Brown  by." 

I  stood  a  long  time  on  the  spot,  amid  the  grace 
fully  drooping  golden-rods,  and  looked  at  the  same 
sky  old  John  Brown  looked  his  last  on,  the  same 
groves,  and  the  distant  Blue  Ridge,  the  sight  of 
whose  cerulean  summits,  clad  in  softest  heavenly 
light,  must  have  conveyed  a  sweet  assurance  to  his 
soul. 

The  jail  in  ashes,  the  court  house  in  ruins,  and 
a  neighboring  church  that  was  turned  into  a  stable 
by  Union  troopers  and  had  not  yet  been  cleansed 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      273 

of  the  abomination,  were,  on  a  small  scale  and  in  a 
mild  way,  typical  of  the  devastation  I  was  to  wit 
ness  throughout  my  Southern  journey,  wherever 
the  harrow  of  war  had  left  its  trace. 

II 

About  the  last  of  August  I  reached  Washing 
ton,  where  I  remained  ten  or  twelve  days,  writing 
out  my  notes,  gathering  material  for  new  ones, 
and  seeing  old  friends  and  new  acquaintances. 
Whitelaw  Reid,  who  had  lately  accompanied 
Chief  Justice  Chase  in  his  coastwise  Southern 
tour  on  a  United  States  revenue  cutter,  and  was 
then  preparing  his  book,  After  the  War,  went 
with  me  over  the  Bull  Run  battle-fields,  and  gave 
me  from  his  own  experience  valuable  hints  as  to 
what  was  before  me.  To  one-armed  General  O.  O. 
Howard,  a  brave  man  and  true,  I  was  indebted 
for  much  useful  information,  a  general  letter  of 
introduction  to  military  heads  of  departments,  and 
this  cheerful  bit  of  advice  as  to  the  guerrillas  and 
Yankee-haters  I  might  meet :  "  Let  them  kill  you 
if  they  want  to  ! " 

Chief  Justice  Chase  (my  old  friend,  of  whom  I 
shall  have  much  to  say  in  another  place),  fresh 
from  his  own  Southern  tour,  expressed  great  in 
terest  in  my  trip,  and  saying,  "Excuse  me  a 
moment,"  turned  to  write  a  letter  at  his  desk. 


274  MY   OWN   STORY 

He  handed  it  to  me  unsealed,  with  the  remark, 
"Perhaps  this  may  be  of  some  use  to  you."  It 
was  a  general  letter  of  introduction,  cordially  com 
mending  me  "  to  all  with  whom  his  opinion  might 
have  weight."  It  proved  of  very  great  use  to  me 
indeed. 

General  Garfield  I  met  on  the  street  quite  un 
expectedly,  not  knowing  that  he  was  then  in  Wash 
ington.  Tall,  well-proportioned,  broad-minded,  ur 
bane,  how  well  I  remember  him  and  his  hearty 
handshake  as,  having  heard  whither  I  was  bound, 
he  bade  me  good-speed  on  my  mission  !  This  was 
the  last  time  I  ever  spoke  with  him,  although  I 
afterwards  saw  him  on  two  or  three  occasions  on 
the  floor  of  Congress.  Not  many  of  his  friends 
then  imagined  that  he  had  before  him,  in  a  not 
very  remote  future,  the  great  goal  of  the  Presi 
dency,  which  he  was  to  reach  only  to  be  hurled 
from  that  height  by  a  petty  assassin's  mad  act. 

Ill 

A  breezy  trip  of  three  hours  by  steamer  down 
the  Potomac,  from  Washington,  brought  me  to 
Acquia  Creek,  and  I  was  at  once  in  the  track  of 
our  armies  in  the  famous  "  on-to-Richmond " 
campaigns. 

Fredericksburg,  which  I  reached  that  afternoon, 
was  still  half  in  ruins,  with  broken  walls,  and  soli- 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER   THE   WAR      275 

tary  chimney  stacks  standing  like  grim  sentinels 
over  foundations  overgrown  with  weeds  and  this 
tles.  I  rode  into  the  city  on  the  top  of  a  coach 
beside  a  vivacious  expressman,  who  was  carrying 
in  his  tin  box  fifty  pardons  from  President  John 
son  to  prominent  Virginia  rebels.  In  talking  with 
him  I  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  realized  fully 
what  "  State  pride  "  was.  To  hear  him  pronounce 
the  word  V-i-r-g-i-n-ia,  dwelling  with  rich  into 
nations  on  the  luscious  vowels  and  consonants, 
was  as  good  as  eating  a  peach.  "  I  believe  my 
State  is  worth  all  the  rest  of  the  Union,"  he  ex 
claimed,  with  excited  countenance,  lip  curled,  and 
eye  in  a  fine  frenzy.  He  had  been  opposed  to 
secession,  but  State  pride  had  carried  him  with 
her  into  the  war. 

In  singular  contrast  with  him  was  a  sturdy  old 
man  whom  I  met  in  Fredericksburg.  Pointing 
out  the  havoc  made  by  Burnside's  shells,  he  ex 
claimed  bitterly,  — 

"  You  see  the  result  of  the  vanity  of  Virginia !  " 

I  asked  him  if  he  was  a  Virginian.  "  I  am  ;  but 
that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  be  blind  to  the 
faults  of  my  State." 

"  You  were  not  much  in  favor  of  secession  ? " 
I  suggested. 

"  In  favor  of  it ! "  he  exclaimed,  kindling. 
"Didn't  they  have  me  in  jail  here  nine  weeks 


276  MY  OWN   STORY 

because  I  would  n't  vote  for  it  ?  Now  look  at 
this  ruined  city !  the  farms  and  plantations  laid 
waste  !  the  rich  reduced  to  poverty,  young  men 
and  boys  with  one  leg,  one  arm,  or  one  hand ! 
the  broken  families,  the  tens  of  thousands  of 
graves!  It  is  all  the  result  of  vanity !  vanity!" 
which  seemed  but  another  name  for  "State 
pride." 

To  these  samples  of  the  endless  variety  of  char 
acters  and  conversations  I  was  to  meet  and  make 
note  of  on  my  tour  through  Secessia,  I  will  add 
one  more  here.  From  Fredericksburg  I  was 
driven  out  to  the  field  of  Spottsylvania  by  a  plea 
sant-featured  young  fellow,  who,  like  many  of  the 
young  men,  white  and  black,  I  had  seen  in  that 
region,  wore  United  States  Army  trousers. 

"  Dar  was  right  smart  o'  trad'n'  done  in  Yankee 
clo'es,  last  years  of  de  war,"  he  explained. 

I  asked,  "  Did  you  rob  a  dead  soldier  of  those 
you  have  on  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  bought  dese  in  Fredericksburg.  I 
never  robbed  a  dead  man."  When  I  suggested  that 
they  might  have  been  taken  from  a  dead  soldier 
by  some  one  else,  he  replied  stoically,  "  Mought 
be;  but  it  couldn't  be  ho'ped  "  (helped).  "A 
po'  man  can't  be  choice." 

He  used  "  de  "  for  "  the  "  almost  invariably,  with 
many  other  expressions  that  betrayed  early  asso- 


THE   SOUTH    AFTER   THE   WAR      277 

elation  with  negroes.  He  told  me  his  name  was 
Richard  H.  Hicks. 

I  asked,  "  What  is  your  middle  name  ? " 

"  I  hain't  got  no  middle  name." 

"  What  does  the  « H.'  stand  for  ? " 

" '  H.'  stands  for  Hicks  ;  Richard  H.  Hicks ; 
dat's  what  dey  tell  me."  He  could  n't  read  ;  had 
never  been  to  school ;  "  never  had  no  chance  to 
learn." 

This  confession  somehow  touched  me  with  a 
sadness  I  had  not  felt  even  at  the  sight  of  un- 
buried  or  half-buried  dead  men  in  the  woods. 
Young,  active,  naturally  intelligent,  he  was  himself 
dead  to  a  world  without  which  this  would  seem  to 
us  a  blank,  the  world  of  literature.  I  thought  of 
Shakespeare,  David,  the  prophets,  the  poets,  the 
historians  and  romancers,  and  as  my  mind  glanced 
from  name  to  name  on  the  glittering  entablatures, 
I  seemed  to  be  standing  in  a  glorious  temple  with 
a  blind  youth  by  my  side.  I  asked  if  he  had  ever 
heard  of  Walter  Scott. 

"  No,  I  never  heard  of  dat  Scott ;  but  I  know  a 
William  Scott." 

"  Or  of  a  great  English  poet  called  Lord 
Byron  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  never  knowed  dar  was  such  a  man." 

What  a  gulf  betwixt  his  mind  and  mine !  Sit 
ting  side  by  side  on  the  buggy  seat,  we  were  as 


278  MY  OWN    STORY 

far  asunder  as  the  great  globe's  poles.  He  was 
a  common  product  of  Southern  institutions,  such 
as  in  rural  New  York  or  New  England  it  would  be 
impossible  to  find. 

IV 

On  the  fields  of  Spottsylvania,  Chancellorsville, 
and  the  Wilderness,  —  if  they  could  be  called 
fields,  which  were  largely  overgrown  with  scrub 
oaks  and  dwarfish  pines  and  cedars,  —  I  came 
upon  evidences  of  the  most  terrible  fighting  which 
the  four  years'  conflict  had  witnessed  ;  for  this  was 
the  sanguinary  course  of  which  Grant  had  declared, 
"  I  propose  to  fight  it  out  on  this  line  if  it  takes 
all  summer."  I  passed  whole  thickets  that  had 
been  killed  by  the  horizontal  leaden  hail  and  left 
standing  like  fields  of  huddled  bean  poles  ;  groves 
of  larger  trees,  cut  entirely  off  by  bullets,  the 
stubs  remaining  like  enormous  scrub-brooms 
pointing  towards  heaven ;  planks  from  the  plank- 
roads  piled  up  and  lashed  against  trees,  to  form  a 
shelter  for  pickets ;  a  woman  and  a  child,  with 
knapsack  and  pail,  stolidly  picking  up  bullets,  as 
if  they  had  been  gathering  chincapins,  as  I  at  first 
thought  they  were  ;  knapsacks  and  haversacks,  in 
heaps  or  scattered  ;  pieces  of  rotted  clothing,  frag 
ments  of  harness,  tin  plates  and  canteens  (some 
pierced  with  balls) ;  rusted  fragments  of  shells, 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE   WAR      279 

with  here  and  there  a  round  shot  or  a  shell  unex- 
ploded ;  straps,  buckles,  cartridge-boxes,  old  shoes  ; 
and,  ghastlier  than  all  else,  now  and  then  a  stray 
skull  or  an  entire  skeleton,  which  the  burying 
parties  had  overlooked  in  out-of-the-way  places ; 
or  the  hideous  half -resurrection  of  the  dead  that 
had  been  laid  in  graves  too  shallow,  where  the 
rain -washed  soil  exposed  a  breast  bone,  a  grinning 
jaw,  or  fleshless  toes  sticking  out. 

I  sometimes  found  old  letters  strewing  the 
ground,  often  torn  and  half-decayed,  and  with 
the  characters  faded  and  blurred  by  fierce  suns 
and  drenching  storms.  And  beside  one  of  Grant's 
intrenchments  I  picked  up  the  mildewed  fragment 
of  a  German  pocket  Testament.  Strangely  enough, 
in  this  Gehenna  of  human  sacrifice  and  innumer 
able  unknown  graves,  these  were  the  words  that 
caught  my  eye,  on  the  hardly  legible  leaf  :  — 

"  Die  du  mir  gegeben  hast,  die  habe  ich  bewahret, 
und  ist  keiner  von  ihnen  verloren." 

"  Those  that  thou  gavest  me  I  have  kept,  and 
none  of  them  is  lost." 


On  the  fifteenth  of  September  I  took  the  train 
at  Fredericksburg  for  Richmond,  and  covered  in 
three  hours  the  space  which  our  troops  were  more 
than  as  many  years  in  fighting  their  way  over. 


280  MY  OWN   STORY 

It  was  with  strange  emotions  that  I  entered 
the  city  which  the  storm  of  war  had  still  left  beau 
tiful,  although  she  seemed  to  be  mourning  for  her 
sins  in  dust  and  ashes,  —  dust  which  every  wind 
whirled  up  from  the  unwatered  streets,  and  the 
ashes  of  the  Burnt  District. 

I  was  rather  homesick  at  first,  in  a  hotel  that 
afforded  me  very  poor  accommodations  ;  but  this  I 
soon  exchanged  for  one  fronting  on  Capitol  Square, 
and  was  happy  when,  throwing  open  the  shutters 
of  the  room  assigned  me,  I  looked  out  on  the 
park,  the  State  Capitol  (which  had  also  been  the 
Capitol  of  the  Confederacy),  Crawford's  colossal 
equestrian  statue  of  Washington  soaring  amid  the 
trees,  and  the  far-off,  shining  James.  I  could 
always  be  happy  anywhere  with  a  quiet  room  for 
study  and  seclusion,  and  a  fair  outlook. 

I  carried  letters  of  introduction  to  Governor 
Pierpont,  executive  under  the  new  regime,  and  his 
private  secretary,  General  Strother,  author  and 
artist,  who,  over  the  pseudonym  of  "  Porte 
Crayon,"  illustrated  his  own  magazine  articles ;  to 
General  Terry,  commander  of  the  military  depart 
ment,  and  his  chief  of  staff,  General  J.  R.  Hawley, 
now  Senator  Hawley  of  Connecticut ;  to  the  as 
sistant  commissioner  of  the  Freedmen's  Bureau, 
and  to  others  who  had  assimilated  a  vast  deal  of 
information  about  the  anomalous  conditions  I  had 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      281 

come  to  study,  and  who  were  obligingly  ready  to 
impart  it.  Generals  Terry  and  Hawley  treated 
me  with  the  utmost  kindness,  furnishing  me  with 
an  army  horse,  and  one  of  the  staff  for  a  guide, 
for  trips  which  I  could  not  well  make  on  foot  or 
on  wheels.  My  boyish  habit  of  horseback  exer 
cise  on  the  farm,  or  riding  for  cattle  or  game  on 
the  prairies  of  Illinois,  had  quickly  come  back,  and 
I  was  to  find  it  exceedingly  useful  during  my 
Southern  tour. 

On  a  corner  opposite  my  hotel,  with  a  spire 
clean  as  a  stiletto,  was  St.  Paul's  Church,  where 
President  Jefferson  Davis  heard  the  gospel 
preached  from  the  slave-owner's  point  of  view; 
and  where  he  sat  in  his  pew  on  that  memorable 
Sunday  morning,  when  Lee's  dispatch  was  handed 
to  him,  announcing  that  Richmond  was  lost.  Not 
very  far  away  was  St.  John's  Church,  whose 
ancient  walls  reechoed  Patrick  Henry's  renowned 
speech,  since  spouted  by  schoolboys,  —  "  Give 
me  liberty  or  give  me  death  !  "  —  two  widely  con 
trasted  scenes,  affording  food  for  reflection. 

I  paid  an  early  visit  to  the  halls  of  the  late  Con 
federate  Congress,  in  the  State  Capitol ;  where  it 
was  my  fortune  to  set  on  foot  a  movement  plea 
sant  to  remember.  I  found  the  halls  a  scene  of 
dust  and  confusion  ;  the  desks  and  seats  had  been 
ripped  up,  and  workmen  were  engaged  in  sweeping 


282  MY   OWN    STORY 

out  the  last  vestiges  of  Confederate  rule.  The 
furniture  had  gone  to  an  auction  room,  to  be  sold 
under  the  hammer  ;  I  reported  the  fact  to  a  mem 
ber  of  the  American  Union  Commission  (supported 
by  Northern  benevolence),  who  was  looking  for 
furniture  to  be  used  in  the  freedmen's  schools,  and 
he  made  haste  to  bid  in  the  relics.  I  could  fancy 
no  finer  stroke  of  poetical  justice  than  the  con 
version  of  the  seats  on  which  sat  the  legislators  of 
the  great  slave  empire,  and  the  desks  on  which 
they  wrote,  into  seats  and  desks  for  negro  children 
and  adults  learning  to  read. 

VI 

Among  the  many  interesting  or  astonishing 
sights  awaiting  me,  in  and  around  Richmond,  I 
must  mention  one,  the  like  of  which  I  was  often 
to  witness  throughout  the  devastated  South.  This 
was  the  issuing  of  what  were  called  "destitute 
rations  "  by  the  United  States  Commissary,  to 
hungry-looking,  haggard  crowds,  —  sickly  faced 
women,  jaundiced  old  men,  and  children  in  rags  ; 
with  here  and  there  a  seedy  gentleman  who  had 
seen  better  days,  or  a  stately  female  in  faded  ap 
parel,  which,  like  her  refined  manners,  betrayed  the 
aristocratic  lady  whom  war  and  emancipation  had 
reduced  to  want.  Colored  people  were  not  per 
mitted  to  draw  rations  for  themselves  at  the  same 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      283 

place  with  the  whites  ;  but  there  were  among  these 
a  good  many  colored  servants  "  drawing  "  for  their 
mistresses,  who  remained  at  home,  too  ill  or  too 
proud  to  come  in  person  and  present  the  tickets 
issued  to  them  by  the  Relief  Commission. 

At  the  place  where  "  destitute  rations  "  were 
issued  for  the  blacks,  business  appeared  dull ;  a 
surprising  circumstance  considering  that  the 
colored  population  then  crowded  into  Richmond 
about  equaled  the  white  population.  In  the  book 
I  was  preparing  I  endeavored  to  trace  the  reasons 
for  this  discrepancy ;  which  I  pass  over  here,  hav 
ing  mentioned  the  subject  at  all,  merely  to  draw 
attention  to  the  policy  of  our  government,  unprece 
dented  in  the  world's  history,  of  following  its  victo 
rious  armies  with  stores  to  feed  a  conquered  pro 
vince  and  with  express-boxes  full  of  pardons  for  its 
enemies.  Great  stress,  not  unjustly,  has  been  laid 
upon  the  corruption  of  the  carpet-bag  governments 
that  undertook,  in  the  interests  of  Federal  Union 
and  of  the  enfranchised  blacks,  the  reconstruction 
of  the  States  that  had  been  in  rebellion.  Corrupt 
enough  they  in  many  cases  were,  without  question. 
But  the  wrongs  committed  by  them  were  as  passing 
shadows  in  the  splendor  of  the  magnanimity  shown 
to  a  vanquished  foe. 

In  Virginia,  as  in  other  parts  of  the  South,  I 
found  those  who  had  been  in  the  Confederate  ranks 


284  MY  OWN   STORY 

generally  the  most  ready  to  resume  their  loyalty 
to  the  flag  they  had  fought  against.  The  Seces 
sionists  who  had  kept  out  of  the  war  were  the  most 
persistent  and  the  most  violent  in  their  hatred  of  the 
restored  Union.  The  female  Secessionists  were 
bitterest  of  all.  They  would  yield  nothing  even  to 
the  logic  of  events.  To  appeal  to  their  reason  was 
idle ;  but  they  were  vulnerable  on  the  side  of  the 
sentiments ;  and  many  a  fair  one  was  converted 
from  the  heresy  of  state  rights  by  some  handsome 
Federal  officer,  who  judiciously  mingled  love  with 
loyalty  in  his  addresses,  and  pleaded  for  the  union 
of  hands  as  well  as  the  union  of  States. 

VII 

From  Fortress  Monroe,  as  I  stated  in  my 
narrative,  I  was  called  home  by  an  affair  of  busi 
ness  requiring  my  attention.  That  affair,  I  may 
explain  here,  was  the  putting  through  the  press 
of  a  hundred  pages  or  more  of  my  forthcoming 
book,  to  form  a  "  dummy  "  of  sample  chapters  and 
contents,  for  the  use  of  agents  in  soliciting  sub 
scriptions. 

The  return  home  at  that  time  was  extremely 
fortunate,  for  I  had  already  received  into  my  sys 
tem  seeds  of  a  distemper,  which  developed  into  a 
severe  and  prolonged  siege  of  bilious  fever,  —  the 
first  serious  illness  to  which  my  constitution  had 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      285 

ever  succumbed.  I  could  never  believe  that  this 
was  caused  by  overwork  or  change  of  climate  and 
diet ;  for  the  life  agreed  with  me,  and  I  grew  ro 
bust  and  bronzed,  until  the  first  insidious  symp 
toms  appeared,  brought  on  by  the  "  wulgar  error" 
(as  an  admirer  of  Sam  Weller  suggested)  of  not 
putting  enough  whiskey  in  my  water,  during  the 
warm  September  days  I  passed  in  Richmond, 
when  I  was  possessed  by  an  abnormal  thirst. 
The  distressing  sickness,  of  a  month's  duration, 
I  could  have  borne  with  equanimity  but  for  my 
impatience  to  get  back  to  my  work,  and  my  anxi 
ety  on  account  of  the  publisher,  who  had  so  large 
a  risk  in  my  ability  to  carry  it  to  completion. 
But  in  this  crisis,  as  in  all  my  relations  with  him, 
he  was  courageous  and  generous  to  the  last  de 
gree.  He  expressed  himself  as  highly  satisfied 
with  what  I  had  done  thus  far,  begged  me  not  to 
exert  myself  until  I  was  fully  recovered,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  prepare  the  "  dummy  "  for  his  canvas 
sers,  who,  all  the  following  winter  and  spring, 
would  be  selling  the  book  while  I  was  completing 

it. 

VIII 

I  resumed  my  Southern  tour  in  December,  pass 
ing  through  central  and  southwest  Virginia  into 
East  Tennessee,  where  I  was  curious  to  observe 
the  country  and  people  I  had  attempted  to  depict 


286  MY   OWN   STORY 

in  Cudjo's  Cave ;  and  where  I  beheld  so  much 
that  was  dishearteningly  prosaic  and  chilling  to 
the  imagination  that  I  deemed  myself  fortunate 
in  not  having  visited  the  scene  before  choosing  it 
for  the  incidents  and  characters  of  my  story. 

A  few  farmers  had  comfortable-looking  painted 
or  brick  houses ;  while  scattered  everywhere 
over  the  valleys  and  mountain  slopes  were  poverty- 
stricken,  weather-blackened  little  framed  dwell 
ings  and  log  huts.  Many  of  these  were  without 
windows,  the  inmates  —  as  the  custom  was 
through  a  large  part  of  the  South  —  living  by  the 
daylight  let  in  through  open  doors  and  the  fire 
light  from  great  wide  chimneys.  The  villages 
were  without  sidewalks  or  paved  streets.  In 
Greenville  I  saw  President  Johnson's  Tennessee 
home,  a  plain  brick  dwelling,  with  mud  almost  up 
to  the  front  door. 

The  fires  of  the  old  war-time  feuds  were  still 
burning.  Secessionists  who  had  assisted  in  the 
hanging  and  robbing  of  Union  men  were  in  jail  or 
in  exile.  I  saw  later  one  of  these  fugitives  who 
told  me  how  homesickly  he  pined  for  the  hills  and 
dales  of  East  Tennessee,  which  he  thought  the 
most  delightful  country  in  the  world.  But  there 
was  a  rope  "  hanging  from  a  tree  for  him  there," 
and  he  could  n't  go  back. 

A  Union  man,  whom  I  met  on  the  abutment  of 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      287 

a  burned  railroad  bridge  at  Strawberry  Plain,  was 
telling  me  about  the  rebel  operations  at  that 
place,  when  a  fine  fellow  came  dashing  into  the 
village  on  horseback. 

"There's  a  dog-goned  rebel  now!"  said  my 
man,  eyeing  him  with  baleful  glances.  "  He  's  a 
rebel  colonel  just  come  back.  He  '11  get  warned  ; 
and  then  if  he  don't  leave,  he  must  look  out !  " 

It  was  useless  to  preach  forgiveness  and  good 
will  to  men  still  burning  with  the  memory  of  their 
wrongs. 

The  rebel  spirit  was  still  rampant  in  places 
where  personal  protection  was  afforded  by  the 
power  it  had  lately  fought.  At  the  table  of  the 
Bell  House,  in  Knoxville,  a  diner  who  sat  near 
me  called  out  to  one  of  the  waiters,  a  good-look 
ing  colored  man,  —  "  Here,  boy ! " 

"  My  name  is  Dick,"  said  the  "  boy,"  respect 
fully. 

"  You  '11  answer  to  the  name  I  call  you,  or  I  '11 
blow  a  hole  through  you  !  "  swore  the  gentleman. 
He  proceeded,  addressing  the  company,  "  Last 
week,  in  Chattanooga,  I  said  to  a  nigger  I  found 
at  the  railroad,  'Here,  Buck,  show  me  the  bag 
gage-room.'  He  said,  '  My  name  ain't  Buck.'  I 
just  put  my  six-shooter  to  his  head,  and,  by  God ! 
he  did  n't  stop  to  think  what  his  name  was,  but 
showed  me  what  I  wanted." 


288  MY  OWN   STORY 

My  pleasantest  recollection  of  Chattanooga  is 
the  ascent  of  Lookout  Mountain,  from  that  place, 
on  an  army  horse  provided  for  me  by  General 
Gillem,  who  was  in  command  there,  and  who  gave 
me  his  orderly  for  an  attendant.  The  orderly  was 
an  intelligent  quadroon,  who  had  been  Grant's  body 
servant  in  the  early  days  of  the  war.  He  had  much 
to  say  of  the  famous  chief,  whom  he  described  as 
quiet,  kind,  a  great  smoker,  very  silent,  and  never 
excited  ;  "a  heavy  sleeper  and  a  heavy  drinker." 

"  There  was  only  one  time  when  he  appeared 
troubled  in  his  mind ;  that  was  after  the  battle  of 
Shiloh.  About  that  time  he  seemed  to  wake  up 
to  the  notion  that  he  'd  got  a  big  job  to  do ;  for  he 
suddenly  left  off  drink,  and  I  never  saw  him  take 
any  whiskey  after  that." 

Of  Lookout  Mountain,  the  scene  of  "fighting 
Joe  Hooker's"  famous  "battle  in  the  clouds," 
and  of  the  incomparable  view  from  the  summit, 
with  cloud  shadows  chasing  each  other  over  hazy 
ranges  and  misty  vales,  as  far  away  as  the  eye 
could  see,  and  with  the  long,  bright,  crooked  Ten 
nessee  curving  in  to  the  very  base  of  the  mighty 
crags  on  which  we  stood, — of  all  this,  and  of  other 
things  that  made  that  day  golden  in  my  memory, 
I  can  give  here  only  a  glimpse,  or  less  than  a 
glimpse,  in  passing. 


THE  SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      289 

IX 

My  visit  to  Nashville  chanced  on  the  first  anni 
versary  of  the  battle  which  took  place  there,  under 
the  eyes  of  the  citizens,  on  the  fifteenth  and  six 
teenth  days  of  December,  1864,  when  Hood's  army 
was  annihilated,  and  a  period  put  to  rebel  rule  in 
the  States  Sherman  had  left  behind  him  in  his 
great  "  march  to  the  sea." 

The  wife  of  a  noted  general  officer  who  was  in 
the  thickest  of  the  fight  told  me  something  of  her 
experience,  watching  from  the  Capitol  with  a  glass 
the  movements  of  his  troops,  —  the  swift  gallop  of 
couriers,  the  charge,  the  repulse,  the  successful 
assault,  the  ground  dotted  with  the  slain,  and  the 
awful  battle-cloud  rolling  over  all,  enfolding,  as  she 
at  one  time  believed,  his  dead  form  with  the  rest. 
But  he  lived,  and  was  present  when  she  told  me 
the  story.  The  battle  was  no  such  fearful  thing 
to  the  brave  soldier  in  the  midst  of  it  as  to  the 
loving  wife  looking  on. 

At  Nashville  I  saw  Governor  Brownlow,  better 
known  as  "Parson  Brownlow,"  whose  published 
sayings,  spiced  by  quaintness  and  wit,  had  given 
him  a  national  reputation,  remembered  now  by  few. 
He  was  especially  interesting  to  me  as  an  out 
spoken  convert  from  the  proslavery  doctrines  he 
formerly  advocated  to  the  radical  ideas  which  the 


29o  MY  OWN   STORY 

agitations  of  the  time  had  shaken  to  the  surface 
of  society.  His  elevation  to  the  high  office  of 
governor  of  the  State  had  not  tended  to  modify 
his  style  of  conversation.  He  believed  a  rebel  had 
no  rights  except  to  be  "  hung  in  this  world  and 
damned  in  the  next."  But  this  and  similar  expres 
sions  did  not  proceed  so  much  from  a  vindictive 
nature  as  from  a  tendency  to  strong,  extravagant 
statement,  common  in  the  West  and  South. 

From  the  governor's  I  went  over  to  the  division 
headquarters  to  call  on  Major-General  Thomas,— 
a  very  different  type  of  native  Southern  man. 
Born  and  bred  in  Virginia,  his  patriotism  was 
national,  knowing  no  state  boundaries.  In  ap 
pearance,  he  was  the  most  lion-like  of  all  the 
Union  generals  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  meet. 
Beside  that  magnificent  live  oak  of  a  man,  Gov 
ernor  Brownlow  was  a  poplar,  with  sensitive  leaves 
rustling  in  every  wind.  An  imperturbable,  strong 
character,  never  betrayed  into  excess  by  any  excite 
ment,  the  general's  opinions,  which  he  imparted 
freely,  possessed  great  interest  and  value  for  me 

and  my  book. 

X 

On  the  trip  by  train  from  Nashville  to  Corinth 
I  made  acquaintance  with  a  manly  young  South 
erner,  whose  character  enlisted  my  sympathy,  and 
whose  conversation  I  condense  here,  as  a  sample 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE   WAR      291 

of  the  hundreds  of  such  with  which  my  notebooks 
overflowed. 

"  We  have  lost  our  property,  and  we  have  been 
subjugated,  but  we  brought  it  all  on  ourselves. 
Nobody  that  has  n't  experienced  it  knows  anything 
about  our  suffering.  I  never  did  a  day's  work  in 
my  life,  and  don't  know  how  to  begin." 

Speaking  of  the  negroes  :  "  We  can't  feel  to 
wards  them  as  you  do  ;  I  suppose  we  ought  to, 
but  it  is  n't  possible.  They  've  always  been  our 
owned  servants  ;  we  've  been  used  to  having  them 
mind  us  without  a  word  of  objection,  and  we  can't 
bear  anything  else  from  them  now.  I  was  always 
kind  to  my  slaves.  I  never  whipped  but  two  boys 
in  my  life,  and  one  of  them  I  whipped  three  weeks 
ago." 

"  When  he  was  a  free  man  ? "  I  said. 

"  Yes ;  for  I  tell  you  that  makes  no  difference 
in  our  feeling  towards  them.  I  sent  him  across 
the  country  for  some  goods.  He  came  back  with 
half  the  goods  he  ought  to  have  got  for  the  money. 
I  may  as  well  be  frank,  —  it  was  a  gallon  of  whis 
key.  There  were  five  gentlemen  at  the  house, 
and  I  wanted  the  whiskey  for  them.  I  told  Bob  he 
stole  it.  Afterwards  he  came  into  the  room  and 
stood  by  the  door,  —  a  big,  strong  fellow,  twenty- 
three  years  old.  I  said,  '  Bob,  what  do  you  want  ? ' 
He  said,  'I  want  satisfaction  about  the  whiskey.' 


292  MY   OWN   STORY 

He  told  me  afterwards,  he  meant  that  he  was  n't  sat 
isfied  I  should  think  that  he  had  stolen  it,  and  he 
wanted  to  come  to  a  good  understanding  about  it. 
But  I  thought  he  wanted  satisfaction  gentlemen's 
fashion.  I  rushed  for  my  gun.  I  'd  have  shot  him 
dead  on  the  spot  if  my  friends  had  n't  held  me. 
They  said  I  'd  best  not  kill  him,  but  that  he  ought 
to  be  whipped.  I  sent  to  the  stable  for  a  trace, 
and  gave  him  a  bull-dose  with  it,  hard  as  I  could 
lay  on." 

I  asked  if  Bob  made  no  resistance.  "  Oh,  he 
knew  better  than  that !  my  friends  stood  by  to 
see  me  through.  I  was  wrong,  I  know,  but  I  was 
in  a  passion." 

I  said,  "  According  to  your  own  showing,  some 
restraint  seems  to  be  necessary  to  you,  and  some 
protection  for  the  negroes  ;  on  the  whole,  the 
Freedmen's  Bureau  is  a  good  thing,  is  n't  it  ? " 

He  smiled  :  "  Maybe  it  is ;  yes,  if  the  nigger  is 
to  be  free,  I  reckon  it  is  ;  but  it 's  a  mighty  bitter 
thing  for  us  !  " 

XI 

I  have  purposed  keeping  the  Freedmen's  Bureau 
and  Freedmen's  Schools  as  much  as  possible  out  of 
these  reminiscences.  But  I  cannot  forbear  recall 
ing  here  a  few  observations  made  at  that  time,  at 
Memphis  and  elsewhere,  so  little  is  now  known 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      293 

or  remembered  of  what  were  then  matters  of  such 
tremendous  import. 

The  codes  of  the  slave  States  prohibiting  the 
teaching  of  the  simplest  rudiments  of  learning  to 
the  subject  race,  and  denying  to  it  the  privileges 
of  citizenship,  had  been  rendered  incongruous  and 
obsolete  by  emancipation.  The  former  kindly  rela 
tions  generally  existing  between  masters  and  ser 
vants,  as  long  as  the  servants  humbly  kept  their 
place,  had  been  violently  disturbed  or  disrupted 
altogether;  while  the  old  prejudice  against  color, 
or  any  taint  of  it,  had  been  intensified  to  a  sort  of 
mania  in  the  dominant  class  by  the  freedmen's 
assumption  of  freedmen's  rights.  That  this  as 
sumption  was  often  insolent,  and  that  many  of 
the  emancipated  believed  that  their  new-found 
liberty  meant  an  endless  orgy  of  idleness  and  in 
dulgence,  cannot  be  gainsaid.  It  would  have  been 
surprising  had  it  been  otherwise.  But  the  real 
wonder  was  that  such  vast  numbers  of  the  suddenly 
disenthralled  should  have  remained  peaceable,  pa 
tient,  waiting  for  the  promised  deliverance  that 
did  not  come,  and  in  the  mean  while  willing  to 
work,  even  when  work  was  offered  them  on  worse 
than  the  old  slave-driver's  terms. 

In  that  bewildering  crisis  the  late  masters  were 
hardly  more  capable  than  the  blacks  of  grasping 
the  significance  of  events,  or  of  appreciating  their 


294  MY   OWN   STORY 

new  duties  and  opportunities.  If  they  had  under 
stood  the  situation,  and  had  had  the  wisdom  and 
courage  to  lay  aside  their  prejudices  and  take 
the  leadership  that  belonged  to  them,  in  reestab 
lishing  the  ruptured  relations  on  grounds  of  hu 
manity  and  justice,  there  would  have  been  little 
need  of  such  an  instrument  of  the  government  as 
the  Freedmen's  Bureau,  and  the  portentous  race- 
problem  would  have  been  nearer  its  natural  solu 
tion  than  it  has  been  at  any  time  since  that  instru 
ment  was  withdrawn.  To  say  that  such  a  course 
was  not  possible  for  them  is  not  to  impute  to 
them  any  blame,  but  to  state  a  simple  fact. 

The  Bureau's  function  was  to  protect  the  freed- 
men  and  readjust  their  relations  to  the  superior 
race.  It  regulated  labor  contracts,  and  saw  that 
they  were  properly  observed  by  employers  and 
employed.  Its  courts  were  designed  to  adjudi 
cate  in  cases  that  could  not  be  safely  intrusted 
to  the  civil  courts.  I  watched  carefully  scores 
of  cases  decided  by  these  tribunals,  in  different 
places,  and  do  not  remember  one  in  which  sub 
stantial  justice  was  not  done.  No  doubt  excep 
tions  occurred,  but  I  do  not  believe  they  were 
more  frequent  than  those  which  occur  in  common- 
law  courts  ;  and  they  were  insignificant  compared 
with  the  wholesale  wrong  to  which  the  unpro 
tected  freedman  would  have  been  subjected  in 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      295 

communities  where  old  slave  codes  and  immemo 
rial  custom  denied  to  him  the  "inalienable  rights" 
of  man.  I  have  read  in  recent  fiction,  by  writers 
whose  memory  does  not  go  back  so  far  as  mine, 
farcical  descriptions  of  acts  attributed  to  agents 
of  the  Bureau,  which,  from  my  own  observation  in 
all  the  States  I  visited,  I  unhesitatingly  pronounce 
exceptional,  and  the  outgrowth  of  a  later  time,  or 
absurdly  exaggerated  and  impossible. 

A  great  variety  of  business  was  brought  before 
the  Bureau.  A  negro  man  came  to  advertise  a 
reward  of  fifty  dollars  for  information  that  would 
help  him  find  his  wife  and  children,  sold  away 
from  him  in  times  of  slavery.  A  white  woman, 
who  had  been  warned  by  the  police  that  she  must 
not  live  with  her  husband  because  he  was  black, 
claimed  protection  in  her  marriage  relation,  bring 
ing  proof  that  she  was  in  reality  "  colored."  A 
boy,  formerly  a  slave,  to  whom  his  father,  a  free 
man,  willed  some  money,  loaned  it  to  his  owner, 
who  gave  his  note  for  it,  but  would  never  repay 
it,  and  now  the  boy  came,  pulling  the  worn  and 
soiled  bit  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  as  proof  of  his 
claim  for  principal  and  interest.  Such  document 
ary  evidence,  long  kept  concealed,  was  serving  to 
right  many  a  wrong.  I  once  saw  a  large  package 
of  wills,  made  in  favor  of  slaves,  usually  by  their 
white  fathers,  all  of  which  had  been  suppressed 


296  MY  OWN   STORY 

by  the  legitimate  heirs.  One,  a  mere  rag,  scarcely 
legible,  had  been  carried  sewed  in  the  lining  of  a 
slave-woman's  dress  for  more  than  forty  years,  the 
date  of  the  will  being  1823.  By  that  instrument 
her  son  was  legally  emancipated ;  but  her  owner, 
who  claimed  to  be  the  boy's  owner  by  inheritance, 
threatened  to  kill  her  if  the  will  was  not  de 
stroyed,  and  he  believed  that  it  had  been  destroyed. 
That  boy  was  now  a  middle-aged  man,  having 
passed  the  flower  of  his  years  in  bondage ;  and 
his  mother  was  an  old  woman,  living  to  thank  God 
that  her  son  was  free.  The  master,  a  rich  man, 
had  as  yet  no  idea  of  the  existence  of  that  will,  by 
which  he  might  be  held  responsible  for  the  pay 
ment  of  over  forty  years'  wages  to  his  unlawful 

bondman. 

XII 

Proceeding  from  Memphis  by  steamboat,  down 
the  Mississippi,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day 
I  sighted  Vicksburg,  situated  on  a  high  bluff,  with 
the  sunlight  on  its  hills  and  roofs  and  fortifica 
tions  ;  golden  fair  in  the  enchantment  distance 
lends. 

The  town  was  still  rude  with  the  scars  left  by 
the  famous  siege.  It  sloped  up  rapidly  from  the 
landing,  on  hills  cut  through  by  streets,  which 
afforded  the  inhabitants  excellent  facilities  for 
burrowing  during  the  investment.  The  base  of 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      297 

the  hills  and  the  yellow,  cliff-like  banks  of  the 
excavated  ways  appeared  completely  honeycombed 
with  caves,  which  still  remained,  a  source  of  as 
tonishment  to  the  stranger,  who  could  easily  fancy 
them  the  abodes  of  a  colony  of  prodigious  bank- 
swallows. 

Many  of  the  caves  were  mere  "  gopher-holes," 
as  the  soldiers  called  them.  Others  were  quite 
spacious.  The  entrance  was  usually  large  enough 
to  admit  a  person  stooping  slightly ;  but,  within, 
the  roofs  of  the  retreats  were  hollowed  sufficiently 
to  allow  a  man  to  stand  upright.  Each  family 
had  its  cave. 

Not  many  houses  were  destroyed  by  the  bom 
bardment.  When  it  was  hottest,  it  was  estimated 
that  six  thousand  shells  were  thrown  into  the  city 
by  the  riverside  mortars  every  twenty-four  hours, 
—  stupendous  and  amazing  fireworks,  if  the  cliff- 
dwellers  peeped  out  of  their  holes  to  observe ! 
Grant's  siege  guns,  in  the  rear  of  the  bluffs, 
dropped  daily  four  thousand  more  along  the  rebel 
lines.  It  seemed  incredible  that  so  small  an 
amount  of  damage  should  have  been  done  by  so 
prodigious  and  prolonged  a  cannonade.  The  sol 
diers  too  had  their  "  gopher-holes,"  and  laughed 
at  the  howling  and  exploding  projectiles.  Of  the 
women  and  children  in  the  town,  only  three  were 
killed  and  twelve  injured.  The  besieged  were 


298  MY   OWN   STORY 

cut  off  from  supplies,  and  both  citizens  and  sol 
diers  suffered  more  from  the  scarcity  of  provisions 
than  from  the  falling  thunderbolts. 

Like  all  the  army  officers  to  whom  I  was  ac 
credited,  Major-General  Wood,  in  command  of 
the  military  department  of  Mississippi,  extended 
to  me  every  possible  courtesy  and  kindness,  and 
gave  me  letters  to  other  commanders  of  depart 
ments  I  was  still  to  visit.  I  passed  memorable 
hours  with  him  at  his  headquarters,  or  riding  by 
his  side  around  the  fortifications  below  Vicksburg, 
inspecting  redans  and  rifle  pits,  approaches  and 
defences. 

One  day  I  joined  a  small  equestrian  party  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  got  up  by  one  of  his  lieu 
tenants  for  my  benefit,  and  rode  to  various  points 
of  interest ;  taking  in  Fort  Hill,  in  the  "  crater  " 
of  which,  after  the  Confederate  bastions  had  been 
mined  and  blown  up,  occurred  one  of  the  most 
desperate  combats  that  marked  the  siege  ;  and  a 
little  way  down  the  slope,  the  spot  rendered  his 
toric  by  the  interview  that  terminated  the  long 
struggle  for  the  key  to  the  Mississippi.  There, 
in  full  view  of  the  confronting  armies,  the  two 
commanding  generals  met  under  an  oak-tree,  and 
had  their  little  talk. 

"  Where  is  the  tree  ?  "  I  inquired. 

Like  the  tree  near  which  John  Brown's  gallows 


THE  SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      299 

stood,  it  had  long  since  disappeared,  root  and 
trunk  and  branch,  cut  up,  broken  up,  dug  up,  dis 
severed  and  scattered  all  over  the  country  in  the 
form  of  relics. 

The  monument  near  by,  a  neat  granite  shaft 
raised  to  commemorate  the  surrender,  seemed 
likely  to  have  a  similar  fate.  It  bore  the  simple 
inscription,  "  Site  of  Interview  between  Major- 
General  Grant  and  Lieutenant-General  Pember- 
ton,  July  4,  1863  ;"  and  it  was  surrounded  by  an 
iron  fence.  The  shaft  had  been  shamefully  mu 
tilated,  and  the  fence  broken  down.  I  wonder  if 
the  obliterated  eagle  and  shield  of  the  escutcheon 
have  been  restored,  and  how  much  of  the  monu 
ment  exists  to-day  ? 

XIII 

The  Quitman,  in  which  I  took  passage  for 
New  Orleans,  —  one  of  the  finest  of  the  large 
Mississippi  packets,  —  treated  her  patrons  sump 
tuously  ;  furnishing,  as  I  remember,  an  excellent 
quality  of  claret  as  a  part  of  the  regular  dinner 
fare,  a  bottle  flanking  each  plate,  after  the  French 
fashion,  which  appeared  to  have  been  introduced 
into  Louisiana  by  the  Creoles,  and  which  I  sup 
posed  was  to  be  found  nowhere  else  in  this  coun 
try,  until  I  met  with  it  afterwards  in  some  part  of 
California. 


3oo  MY   OWN   STORY 

The  river  trips  gave  a  delightful  variety  to  my 
journey ;  they  also  afforded  abundant  opportuni 
ties  for  studying  political  and  social  conditions  in 
the  characters  and  conversations  of  the  passen 
gers,  and  for  observing  some  of  the  old  slave- 
drivers'  methods  of  working  the  blacks.  The 
Quitman  had  sixty  deck  hands,  all  colored  ; 
and  the  way  they  were  hustled  and  hurried  and 
cursed  impressed  itself  on  my  memory,  by  the 
very  pity  of  it.  We  were  nearly  all  night  at 
Natchez  loading  cotton  ;  and  the  next  day  I  no 
ticed  that  the  mate  yelled  himself  unusually 
hoarse  in  getting  his  freight  on  and  off.  I  took 
occasion  to  talk  with  him  about  the  deck  hands. 
He  said,  — 

"  These  men  are  used  up.  They  hain't  had  no 
sleep  for  four  days  and  nights.  I  've  seen  a  man 
go  to  sleep  many  a  time,  standing  up,  and  tumble 
over,  with  a  box  on  his  shoulder.  We  pay  more 
wages  than  almost  any  other  boat,  the  work  is 
so  hard.  But  we  get  rid  of  paying  a  heap  of  'em. 
When  a  man  gets  so  used  up  he  can't  stand  no 
more,  he  quits  ;  and  he  don't  dare  to  ask  for 
wages,  for  he  knows  he  '11  get  none,  without  he 
sticks  by  to  the  end  of  the  trip." 

While  we  were  talking  a  young  fellow  came  up, 
looking  much  exhausted,  and  told  the  mate  he 
was  sick. 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER   THE  WAR     301 

"  You  ain't  sick,  neither  !  "  the  mate  roared  at 
him.  "  You  're  lazy.  If  you  won't  work,  go 
ashore." 

The  young  fellow  limped  ashore  at  the  next 
landing. 

"  Is  he  sick,  or  lazy  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Neither,"  said  the  mate.  "  He  's  used  up. 
He  was  as  smart  a  man  as  we  had  when  he  come 
aboard.  The  men  can't  stand  it.  Not  one  of 
these  will  ship  for  another  trip ;  they  've  had 
enough  of  it.  There  's  no  compellin'  'em.  You 
can't  hit  a  nigger  now  but  these  damned  Yankee 
sons  of  Satan  have  you  up  and  make  you  pay  for 
it.  I  like  a  nigger  in  his  place,  and  that 's  a  ser 
vant,  if  there  's  any  truth  in  the  Bible."  There 
was  something  grimly  incongruous  in  such  allu 
sions  to  Scripture,  on  lips  hot  with  wrath  and 
wrong. 

The  levees  grew  higher  and  higher  as  we 
steamed  on,  a  large  and  fertile  part  of  Louisiana 
lying  below  the  level  of  only  moderately  high 
water ;  we  passed  bends  and  bayous,  and  forests 
of  cypress-trees  growing  out  of  the  swamps,  heavy, 
sombre,  and  shaggy  with  long  trailing  moss  ;  and 
on  the  first  day  of  January,  1866,  arrived  at  the 
Crescent  City. 


302 


MY  OWN   STORY 


XIV 


It  was  midwinter  ;  but  the  mild,  sunny  weather 
made  me  fancy  it  was  the  month  of  May.  The 
gardens  of  the  city  were  verdant  with  tropical 
plants.  Roses  in  full  bloom  climbed  upon  trel 
lises  or  the  verandas  of  houses  ;  oleander-trees, 
bananas  with  their  broad,  drooping  leaves  six  feet 
long,  and  Japan  plum-trees,  bearing  plums  that 
would  ripen  in  February,  grew  side  by  side  in  the 
open  air.  There  were  orange-trees  whose  golden 
fruit  could  be  plucked  from  the  balconies  they 
half  concealed.  Magnolias,  gray-oaks  and  live- 
oaks,  some  heavily  hung  with  moss  that  swung 
in  the  breeze  like  waving  hair,  shaded  the  yards 
and  streets.  And  there  were  vegetable  gardens 
checkered  and  striped  with  delicately  contrasting 
beds  and  rows  of  lettuce,  cabbages,  carrots,  beets, 
onions  and  peas  in  blossom.  I  seemed  to  have 
entered  a  midwinter  Paradise. 

I  put  up  at  the  St.  Charles,  famous  before  the 
war  as  a  hotel,  and  during  one  year  of  the  war  as 
the  headquarters  of  General  Butler.  He  had  not 
left  behind  him  a  savory  reputation,  and  I  found,  to 
my  surprise,  that  General  Banks,  who  succeeded 
him  in  command  of  the  department,  was  still  less 
respected  even  by  Union  men.  The  rebels  had 
a  certain  respect  for  Butler,  much  as  they  hated 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      303 

him  ;  his  word  could  be  relied  upon  ;  but  Banks 
made  ready  promises  to  both  sides,  and  kept 
faith  with  neither. 

A  very  different  man  from  these  was  the  sturdy 
soldier  I  found  in  command  of  the  military  divi 
sion  of  the  Southwest,  Major-General  Phil  Sheri 
dan.  My  letters  to  him  were  the  first  I  delivered, 
and  I  scarcely  needed  any  others.  He  went 
himself  to  introduce  me  to  Governor  Wells,  to 
Mayor  Kennedy,  and  to  others  whom  he  thought 
it  would  be  pleasant  or  useful  for  me  to  know.  I 
found  him  a  man  of  small  stature,  somewhat  mas 
sively  built,  with  exceeding  toughness  of  consti 
tutional  fibre,  and  an  alert  countenance,  alive  with 
energy.  I  inquired  if  he  experienced  no  reaction 
after  the  long  strain  upon  his  mental  and  bodily 
powers  occasioned  by  the  war. 

"Only  a  pleasant  one,"  he  replied.  "During 
my  western  campaigns,  when  I  was  continually  in 
the  saddle,  I  weighed  only  a  hundred  and  fifteen 
pounds.  But  my  flesh  was  hard  as  iron.  Now  I 
weigh  a  hundred  and  forty-five." 

His  conversation  was  at  times  so  thickly  punc 
tuated  with  emphatic  expletives,  that  he  once 
paused,  and  confided  to  me  this  interesting  ex 
perience. 

"  It 's  a  blanked  bad  practice,  and  when  I  went 
into  the  war  I  was  as  free  from  it  as  a  young  min- 


3o4  MY   OWN    STORY 

ister.  I  never  swore  until  once  when  I  was  get 
ting  some  artillery  over  the  mountains  of  West 
Virginia.  The  mules  would  n't  pull,  the  drivers 
were  disheartened,  all  was  confusion,  everything 
dragged.  At  last  I  exploded  ;  I  burst  out  with  a 
volley  that  worked  a  miracle."  Then  followed  a 
brief  account  of  how  the  mules  jumped,  the  boys 
whipped  and  shouted,  the  wheels  turned  almost 
of  themselves,  and  the  guns  and  caissons  went 
clattering  over  the  crests  ;  reminding  me  of  the 
old  woman's  kid  that  would  n't  pass  the  stile,  until 
all  at  once  the  mouse  began  to  gnaw  the  rope,  the 
rope  began  to  hang  the  butcher,  the  butcher  be 
gan  to  kill  the  ox,  and  so  on.  "  But  it 's  a  blanked 
bad  habit,"  he  repeated,  "  and  I  don't  excuse  it  in 
anybody." 

He  was  delightfully  frank  and  familiar;  but 
when  I  asked  if  he  remembered  just  what  he  said 
to  the  routed  troops,  when  he  met  them  on  his 
famous  ride  to  Winchester,  and  turned  them  back, 
changing  disaster  to  victory,  he  merely  smiled 
significantly,  without  committing  himself  to  any 
thing  explicit. 

XV 

I  left  New  Orleans  by  rail  for  Lake  Pontchar- 
train,  where  just  at  sunset,  one  evening,  I  took  the 
steamer  for  Mobile.  It  was  a  night  of  tranquil 


GEN.    P.    H.    SHERIDAN 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      305 

beauty  on  the  lake.  Strange  constellations  rose 
in  the  southern  hemisphere,  while  others,  around 
the  opposite  pole,  which  never  set  in  the  latitude 
of  our  Northern  States,  sank  below  the  horizon. 
I  had  never  seen  the  North  Star  so  low  before. 

The  next  morning  we  were  in  the  Gulf  of  Mex 
ico,  having  entered  it  by  the  South  Pass.  All  the 
forenoon  we  sailed  its  lustrous,  silken  waters,  with 
tumbling  porpoises  keeping  us  company,  and  peli 
cans  flying  around  us,  or  sporting  and  diving  in 
the  waves. 

From  Mobile  I  ascended  the  Alabama  River  to 
Selma,  three  hundred  miles  as  the  stream  twists 
and  winds ;  proceeding  thence  to  Montgomery, 
Atlanta,  Macon,  and  on  through  Middle  Georgia, 
in  the  track  of  Sherman's  devouring  and  devas 
tating  host.  According  to  a  tradition  which  I 
found  current  there,  Sherman  remarked,  while  on 
his  grand  march  through  the  State,  that  he  had 
his  gloves  on  as  yet,  but  that  he  would  take  them 
off  in  South  Carolina.  Afterwards,  in  North  Car 
olina,  I  heard  the  counterpart  of  this  story. 
"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  remember  we  are  in  the  old 
North  State  now  ;  "  which  was  equivalent  to  put 
ting  them  on  again.  If  the  burned  gin-houses, 
cotton-presses,  railroad  depots,  bridges,  and  freight- 
houses,  which  blackened  his  track  in  Georgia, 
showed  what  he  could  do  with  his  gloves  on,  it 


306  MY   OWN   STORY 

was  appalling  to  think  what  he  might  have  done, 
with  them  off,  in  South  Carolina. 

I  made  more  than  one  wide  detour,  and  had 
often  to  resort  to  stage  or  private  conveyance,  to 
get  over  gaps  in  the  railroads  where  the  tracks  had 
been  destroyed,  and  had  not  yet  been  rebuilt.  The 
relaid  tracks  were  very  rough  ;  many  of  the  old 
rails  having  been  imperfectly  straightened  and  put 
down  again. 

Sherman's  men  had  all  necessary  devices  for 
destroying  tracks.  Said  an  inhabitant,  "They 
could  rip  'em  up  as  fast  as  they  could  count.  They 
burnt  the  ties  and  fences  to  heat  the  iron  red  ; 
then  two  men  would  take  a  rail  and  wrap  it  around 
a  tree  or  a  telegraph  post.  Our  people  found  some 
of  their  iron-benders,  and  they  helped  mightily 
about  straightening  the  rails  again.  Only  the  best 
could  be  used.  The  rest  the  devil  could  n't 
straighten  ! " 

Riding  beside  the  destroyed  tracks,  it  was 
amusing  to  observe  the  shapes  into  which  the  iron 
had  been  twisted.  "  Hairpins  "  predominated. 
"  Corkscrews  "  were  also  abundant.  Sometimes 
we  found  four  or  five  rails  wound  around  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  that  would  have  to  be  cut  before  they 
could  be  removed.  Some  would  have  a  twist  in 
the  middle,  with  the  ends  facing  both  ways. 
Sherman  must  have  had  at  least  one  glove  off  in 
Eastern  Georgia. 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      307 

"A  neighbor  of  mine,"  said  an  East  Georgian, 
"  buried  all  his  gold  and  silver  and  built  a  hog-pen 
over  the  spot.  The  Yankees  mistrusted  a  certain 
new  look  about  it,  ripped  it  away,  stuck  in  their 
bayonets,  and  found  the  specie.  Another  hid  his 
gold  under  the  brick  floor  of  his  smokehouse. 
The  rascals  smelt  out  the  trick,  pulled  up  the 
floor,  got  the  gold,  and  then  burnt  the  smoke 
house.  My  wife  did  the  neatest  thing.  She  took 
all  our  valuables,  such  as  watches  and  silver  spoons, 
and  hid  them  in  the  cornfield.  With  a  knife 
she  would  just  make  a  slit  in  the  ground,  open  it 
a  little,  put  in  one  or  two  things,  and  then  let 
the  top  earth  down,  just  like  it  was  before.  The 
soldiers  went  all  over  that  field,  sticking  in  their 
bayonets,  but  they  didn't  find  a  thing.  The  joke 
of  it  was,  she  came  very  near  not  finding  some  of 
the  things  herself." 

XVI 

From  Augusta  I  hastened  on  to  Savannah,  a 
city  of  strange,  semi-tropic  aspect ;  of  which  I  re 
member  particularly  the  moist  and  heavy  atmos 
phere,  the  night  fogs  encamping  upon  it,  and  the 
dead  level  of  its  sandy  streets,  shaded  by  two  or 
four  rows  of  moss-draped  trees.  More  impressive 
than  all  else  was  the  marvelous  Bonaventure 
Cemetery,  with  its  avenues  of  indescribable  beauty 


3o8  MY   OWN   STORY 

and  gloom,  under  long  colonnades  of  huge  live- 
oaks,  solemn,  still,  and  hoary,  the  great  limbs 
meeting  overhead,  and  bough  and  branch  trailing 
shrouds  of  long  fine  moss,  that  hung  in  ghostly 
silence,  or  waved  mysteriously  in  every  sighing 
wind. 

The  railroad  track  running  north  from  Savannah, 
through  a  country  of  rice  plantations,  had  been 
converted  into  Sherman's  hairpins  and  cork 
screws,  and  had  not  yet  been  rebuilt.  But,  al 
though  I  was  now  turning  my  face  homeward,  and 
should  have  preferred  the  wings  of  a  dove  with  no 
stops  at  way  stations,  I  was  n't  sorry  for  the  chance 
that  took  me  around  to  Charleston  by  sea.  There 
was  little  travel  and  less  business  between  the  two 
cities  at  that  time ;  two  or  three  small  steamers 
sufficing  for  the  entire  traffic.  Going  on  board 
one  of  these  inferior  boats  one  afternoon,  at 
Savannah,  I  awoke  the  next  morning  in  Charleston 
harbor. 

A  warm,  soft,  misty  morning  it  was,  the  pale 
dawn  breaking  through  rifts  in  the  light  clouds 
overhead,  a  vapory  horizon  of  dim  sea  all  around. 
What  was  that  great  bulk  away  on  our  left,  drifting 
silently  past  us  ?  It  was  the  thing  known  as  Fort 
Sumter.  But  it  was  fast  on  its  rock  ;  it  was  we 
who  were  drifting.  It  was  historic  ground  we 
were  traversing  —  or,  rather,  historic  water.  Fort 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      309 

Moultrie,  Castle  Pinckney,  James  Island,  —  how 
one's  heart  stirred  with  the  memories  these  names 
called  up  !  What  was  that  lying  at  anchor  ?  A 
monitor,  with  a  man  on  its  low  flat  deck  walking 
almost  level  with  the  water.  Two  noticeable  ob 
jects  followed  in  our  wake.  One  was  a  proud- 
beaked  New  York  steamer ;  the  other,  the  won 
derful  light  of  dawn  dancing  upon  the  waves. 

Before  us  all  the  while,  rising  and  expanding  at 
our  approach,  its  wharves  and  shipping,  its  ware 
houses  and  church  steeples  gradually  taking  shape, 
as  the  low  peninsula  pushed  out  between  its  two 
rivers,  was  the  haughty  and  defiant  little  city  that 
inaugurated  Secession  and  kindled  the  fire  it  took 
a  nation's  blood  to  quench. 

The  ruins  of  Charleston  were  the  most  pictur 
esque  of  all  I  saw  in  the  South  ;  the  gardens  and 
broken  walls  of  many  of  its  finest  residences  re 
maining  to  attest  their  former  elegance.  Broad, 
semicircular  flights  of  marble  steps,  once  conduct 
ing  to  proud  doorways,  were  cracked  and  calcined 
slabs,  leading  up  to  high  foundations,  swept  of 
everything  but  the  crushed  and  blackened  frag 
ments  of  their  former  superstructures,  with  here 
and  there  a  broken  pillar,  and  here  and  there  a 
windowless  wall. 


3io  MY   OWN   STORY 

XVII 

In  Charleston  and  its  vicinity  I  saw  and  talked 
with  a  great  number  of  people  of  all  conditions, 
high  and  low ;  among  others  more  or  less  worth 
meeting,  Mr.  William  Gilmore  Simms. 

Simms  had  been  a  popular  author  twenty-five 
years  before.  In  my  boyhood  I  had  read  his 
rather  sensational  Pelayo,  and  one  or  two  other  of 
his  romances,  the  recollection  of  which  inspired 
me  with  curiosity  to  see  the  author. 

I  found  him  in  a  printing-office,  doing  some  sort 
of  work  on  a  daily  paper ;  a  man  of  sixty,  with 
shortish  iron-gray  hair  and  roughish  features,  — 
not  at  all  my  idea  of  a  great  writer  who  could 
harrow  up  the  souls  of  boy  readers.  He  was  quite 
ready  to  talk  to  me,  particularly  upon  one  topic, 
namely,  the  damage  the  Yankees  had  inflicted 
upon  his  beloved  State  and  idolized  city. 

"  Charleston,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  level  fixity  of 
look,  "  was  the  finest  city  in  the  world  ;  not  a  large 
city,  but  the  finest.  South  Carolina,  sir,  was  the 
flower  of  modern  civilization.  Our  people  were  the 
most  hospitable,  the  most  accomplished,  having 
the  highest  degree  of  culture  and  the  highest  sense 
of  honor,  of  any  people,  I  will  not  say  of  America, 
sir,  but  of  any  country  on  the  globe.  And  they 
are  so  still,  even  in  their  temporary  desolation." 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER   THE  WAR      311 

All  this  I  could  not  gainsay  ;  my  intimacy  with 
the  world's  civilizations  not  being  sufficient  to  en 
able  me  to  formulate  an  argument.  When  I  would 
have  led  him  to  speak  of  actual  incidents  and  con 
ditions,  he  launched  forth  more  of  these  orotund 
utterances.  As  they  did  not  convey  precisely  the 
sort  of  information  I  was  in  search  of,  I  was  unable 
to  adorn  my  pages  with  them,  and  find  that  I  did 
not  mention  Mr.  W.  G.  Simms  in  my  volume. 

XVIII 

Wherever  else  Sherman  may  have  had  his  gloves 
on,  he  certainly  had  them  off  on  his  way  from 
Charleston  to  the  State  Capital ;  and  there  he 
flung  them  into  the  fire.  What  the  rebel  invaders 
of  Pennsylvania  did  in  a  small  way  at  Chambers- 
burg,  our  army  repeated  on  a  scale  of  appalling 
magnitude  at  Columbia. 

The  city  was  not  destroyed,  however,  by  General 
Sherman's  orders.  It  is  quite  probable  that  the 
fire  was  started  by  flying  flakes  of  the  flaming 
cotton  burned  by  the  Confederates  themselves  in 
their  retreat.  Then  undoubtedly  marauders  took  a 
hand  in  spreading  it.  Three  fifths  of  the  beautiful 
city  went  up  in  roaring  flames  in  one  night. 

Through  Governor  Orr,  to  whom  I  had  letters, 
I  made  acquaintance  with  Mayor  Gibbes  and  other 
citizens ;  and  to  them  I  was  indebted  for  many 


3i2  MY  OWN   STORY 

reminiscences  and  anecdotes.  On  the  night  of  the 
fire,  a  thousand  men  could  be  seen,  in  the  yards 
and  gardens  of  the  city,  by  the  light  of  the  flames, 
probing  the  earth  with  their  bayonets  for  buried 
plunder.  The  dismay  and  terror  of  the  inhabitants 
can  hardly  be  conceived.  Trunks  and  bundles 
were  snatched  from  the  hands  of  hurrying  fugi 
tives,  broken  open,  rifled,  and  then  hurled  into  the 
flames.  Ornaments  were  plucked  from  the  necks 
and  arms  of  ladies  and  caskets  from  their  hands. 

An  old  gentleman  who  had  purchased  two 
watches  for  his  grandchildren  had  one  snatched 
from  him  by  a  soldier.  In  his  rage  and  grief  he 
exclaimed,  "  You  may  as  well  take  the  other  ! " 
and  his  suggestion  was  cheerfully  complied  with. 

Another  sufferer  said,  "  That  watch  will  be 
good  for  nothing  without  the  key.  Won't  you 
stop  and  take  it  ? "  "  Thank  you,"  said  the  sol 
dier  ;  and  he  went  off  proudly  winding  his  new 
chronometer. 

The  soldiers  were  full  of  humorous  remarks 
about  the  ruined  city.  "  What  curious  people  you 
are  !  "  said  one.  "  You  run  up  your  chimneys  be 
fore  you  build  your  houses." 

One  man's  treasure,  buried  by  his  garden  fence, 
escaped  the  soldiers'  divining  rods,  but  was  after 
wards  discovered  by  a  hitched  horse  pawing  the 
earth  over  it.  Some  treasures  were  hidden  in 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      313 

cemeteries,  but  they  did  not  always  escape  the 
search  of  the  soldiers,  who  showed  a  strong  mis 
trust  of  new-made  graves. 

I  talked  with  some  good  Columbians  who  ex 
pressed  the  most  violent  hatred  of  the  Yankees, 
for  the  ruin  of  their  homes.  Others  took  a  more 
philosophical  view  of  the  subject.  This  difference 
was  thus  explained  to  me  by  Governor  Orr's  pri 
vate  secretary,  a  young  man  (an  old  man  now,  if 
he  is  still  living,  as  I  trust  he  may  be)  who  had 
been  an  officer  in  the  Confederate  service. 

"  People  who  were  not  in  the  war  cannot  under 
stand  or  forgive  these  things.  But  those  who 
have  been  in  the  army  know  what  armies  are  ; 
they  know  that,  under  the  same  circumstances, 
they  would  have  done  the  same  things." 

And  I  was  reminded  of  Jeff  Davis's  famous 
speech  at  Stevenson,  Ala.,  in  1861,  in  which  he 
predicted  that  grass  should  grow  in  the  streets  of 
Northern  cities  that  Southern  armies  were  to  lay 
waste  with  "  sword  and  torch." 

XIX 

I  continued  my  tour  through  North  Carolina, 
into  Virginia  again,  and  at  Richmond  completed 
the  circuit,  having  given  four  months  to  my  two 
journeys,  and  visited  ten  of  the  States  which  had 
been  the  principal  scenes  of  the  Great  Conflict. 


314  MY   OWN   STORY 

I  reached  home  in  February,  in  excellent  health, 
and  immediately  set  about  the  completion  of  my 
record  of  observations. 

I  sent  the  manuscript  to  the  printers  as  fast 
as  it  was  written,  and  had  the  last  pages  through 
the  press  some  time  in  June.  The  book  —  a  vol 
ume  of  590  pages,  with  maps  and  steel  and  wood 
engravings  —  had  for  title  :  "  The  South  :  Its 
Battle-Fields,  Desolated  States  and  Ruined  Cities, 
its  People  and  Prospects."  I  made  the  narrative 
as  literally  faithful  to  facts  as  the  most  conscien 
tious  painstaking  would  permit.  Wherever  prac 
ticable,  I  stepped  aside  and  let  the  people  I  met 
speak  for  themselves.  Notes  taken  on  the  spot, 
and  in  many  cases  under  almost  insuperable  diffi 
culties,  —  on  horseback,  in  jolting  wagons,  by  the 
uncertain  firelight  of  a  farmhouse  or  negro  camp, 
sometimes  in  the  dark  and  in  the  rain,  —  enabled 
me  to  do  this  in  many  cases  with  absolute  fidel 
ity.  Idiomatic  peculiarities,  often  so  expressive 
of  character,  I  was  careful  to  reproduce  without 
exaggeration.  It  was  this  almost  photographic 
and  stenographic  truthfulness  which  rendered  the 
volume  unique  among  the  large  number  on  the 
same  subject  appearing  about  the  same  time. 

While  admitting  evidence  from  all  classes  with 
out  prejudice,  I  reserved  the  right  of  the  court  to 
render  judgment,  and  expressed  my  own  opinions 


THE   SOUTH   AFTER  THE  WAR      315 

pretty  liberally  in  discussing  conditions  and  causes, 
the  results  of  emancipation  and  plans  of  recon 
struction,  negro  suffrage,  free  labor,  the  educa 
tion  of  ,the  freedmen,  and  kindred  questions.  I 
shall  not  trouble  the  present  reader  with  my  ar 
guments  and  conclusions,  but  dismiss  the  subject 
with  a  single  consideration,  which  I  do  not  remem 
ber  to  have  laid  stress  upon  at  the  time,  but  which 
recurs  to  me  now  with  impressive  force,  in  review 
ing  those  four  months'  experiences.  It  is  this  : 
that  no  other  country  or  epoch  ever  furnished  such 
abundant  and  rich  materials  for  romantic  or  real 
istic  fiction,  humorous,  tragic,  pathetic,  pictur 
esque,  full  of  great  events  and  of  the  most  amaz 
ing  contrasts  of  characters  and  conditions,  as 
appealed  to  the  heart  and  imagination  in  the  old 
slave  States,  at  that  period  of  social  upheaval. 
That  the  currents,  counter-currents,  and  sombre 
abysses  of  that  troubled  time  have  floated  some 
bright  fiction,  must  be  freely  admitted.  That 
they  did  not  burst  forth  and  overflow  in  tidal 
waves  of  power  and  passion,  lifting  a  great  and 
enduring  literature,  is  the  marvel. 

The  book  had  a  success  which  it  may  have  owed 
largely  to  the  Hartford  method  of  selling  publica 
tions  "  only  by  subscription."  But  while  this 
may  have  had  advantages  in  insuring  for  it  a  cir 
culation,  it  was  not  so  well  adapted  to  enlarging 


3i6  MY  OWN   STORY 

the  reputation  of  the  writer.  The  volume  had  no 
advertising,  and  was  hardly  heard  of  at  all  in  the 
ordinary  avenues  of  the  book  trade.  While  agents 
were  quietly  distributing  it  in  their  districts,  many 
readers  who  knew  me  through  my  other  writings 
remained  ignorant  that  I  had  produced  such  a 
work. 

As  I  had  the  privilege  of  using  in  advance  six 
chapters  from  my  book  in  Ticknor  &  Fields'  two 
periodicals,  I  gave  to  The  Atlantic  those  already 
mentioned,  and  printed  four  articles,  —  A  Visit  to 
Mount  Vernon,  The  Battle-Field  of  Fredericks- 
burg,  Richmond  Prisons,  and  A  Tennessee  Farm- 
House,  —  in  the  other  magazine,  of  which  some 
account  must  now  be  given,  as  I  was  already 
somewhat  intimately,  and  was  to  be  still  more 
intimately,  associated  with  its  fortunes. 


CHAPTER  X 

OUR  YOUNG  FOLKS  AND  BOOKS  FOR  THE  YOUNG 


THE  war  was  nearing  its  close,  and  an  era  of  as 
sured  prosperity  for  the  North  was  setting  in,  when 
Mr.  Fields  invited  my  cooperation  in  establishing 
anew  "illustrated  magazine  for  boys  and  girls." 
I  at  once  became  interested  in  it,  and,  with  other 
friends  of  Mr.  Fields,  began  to  consider  the  im 
portant  question  of  an  appropriate  and  attractive 
title.  Dr.  Holmes,  who  had  christened  The  At 
lantic,  wittily  suggested  The  Atlantic  Lighter;  a 
number  of  other  names  were  proposed  and  re 
jected,  Our  Young  Folks  being  the  one  finally 
chosen.  Well-known  contributors  were  enlisted 
for  the  early  numbers,  —  Mrs.  Stowe,  Miss  Alcott, 
Whittier,  Higginson,  Aldrich,  Rose  Terry,  Miss 
Phelps,  and  a  long  list  besides.  Among  the  later 
writers  were  Edward  Everett  Hale  and  his  sister, 
Lucretia  Hale  (author  of  the  quaint  Peterkin 
Papers),  Bayard  Taylor,  James  Parton,  Mrs.  Eliz 
abeth  Akers-Allen,  Celia  Thaxter,  and  Charles 
Dickens,  who  contributed  a  four-part  serial  story, 
A  Holiday  Romance.  Lowell  and  Longfellow  also 


3i8  MY    OWN    STORY 

were  represented  by  poems.  The  magazine  was 
a  financial  success  from  the  start. 

The  first  number  was  that  for  January,  1865, 
with  the  names  of  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  Gail  Hamil 
ton,  and  Lucy  Larcom  on  the  cover,  as  editors. 
These  were  retained  until  Gail  Hamilton's  violent 
rupture  with  the  publishers  (who  were  also  pub 
lishers  of  her  books)  over  a  question  of  copyright, 
which  led  to  her  attack  upon  them  —  especially 
upon  the  member  of  the  firm  who  had  been  her 
personal  friend  —  in  her  wonderfully  witty  but 
woefully  unwise  Battle  of  the  Books.  When  it 
was  no  longer  possible  to  keep  her  name,  all  the 
names  were  quietly  dropped  from  the  cover,  and 
those  of  the  two  other  editors  appeared  only 
on  the  title-pages  of  the  yearly  volumes.  Mr. 
Howard  M.  Ticknor  was  office  editor  from  the 
first,  while  I  was  contributing  and  (nominally)  con 
sulting  editor  until,  after  Mr.  Ticknor's  with 
drawal  from  the  firm  and  Miss  Larcom's  retire 
ment  from  the  chair  in  which  she  temporarily 
succeeded  him,  I  became  manager  in  1870. 

The  firm  at  that  time,  under  its  new  name  of 
Fields,  Osgood  &  Co.,  occupied  a  spacious  store 
and  chambers  at  124  Tremont  Street,  where  I  had 
a  well-furnished  and  attractive  room  up  two  flights, 
with  windows  overlooking  the  Common.  Below 
mine  was  the  private  room  of  Mr.  Fields,  then  head 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS  319 

of  the  firm,  and  editor  of  The  Atlantic.  Mr.  How- 
ells  was  his  assistant,  and  soon  to  be  chief,  if  not 
practically  so  already.  Adjoining  Mr.  Fields's  room 
was  a  large  reading-room,  in  a  corner  of  which 
Mr.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  conductor  of  Every 
Saturday,  had  his  desk.  In  the  position  of  cashier 
and  book-keeper  was  an  earnest  and  capable  young 
man,  Mr.  Edwin  D.  Mead,  who  left  it  in  the  early 
seventies  to  complete  in  Germany  his  studies  for 
some  sectarian  ministry,  his  chosen  profession, 
which  he  seems  to  have  outgrown  before  he  en 
tered  it,  for  when  he  returned  from  abroad  it  was 
to  begin  a  larger  life-work  in  literature  and  reform. 
The  house  had  a  lunch-room,  with  a  generously 
served  table,  at  which  publishers  and  editors  met, 
and  such  contributors  and  book  authors  as  hap 
pened  to  be  about  were  often  welcomed.  My 
habit  was  to  give  only  my  morning  hours  to  office 
work,  and  to  go  home  to  Arlington  at  noon ;  but 
when  I  was  detained  in  town,  this  lunch-table  and 
its  goodly  company  made  ample  amends  for  the 

inconvenience. 

II 

I  contributed  to  Our  Young  Folks  a  great  vari 
ety  of  articles  in  prose  and  verse ;  among  others, 
Darius  Green  and  his  Flying  Machine,  which  im 
mediately,  like  The  Vagabonds,  became  a  favorite 
with  platform  readers  and  reciters  all  over  the 


320  MY   OWN   STORY 

country.  I  wrote  for  it  a  series  of  papers  on  prac 
tical  subjects,  that  were  afterwards  collected  in  a 
volume  entitled  Lawrence's  Adventures  among 
the  Ice-Cutters,  Glass-Makers,  Coal-Miners,  Iron- 
Men,  and  Ship-Builders,  giving  in  the  guise  of  a 
story  carefully  studied  and  accurate  accounts  of 
the  industries  described  ;  in  gathering  material  for 
which  I  had  gone  as  far  as  the  iron-mills  and  coal 
mines  of  Pennsylvania.  To  avoid  making  my  own 
name  too  conspicuous  I  put  the  pseudonym  Harvey 
Wilder  to  a  series  of  articles  on  natural  history, 
and  that  of  Augustus  Holmes  to  papers  on  Vol 
canoes  and  Geysers,  Mountains  and  Glaciers, 
What  is  the  Sun  ?  Glimpses  of  the  Moon,  and  kin 
dred  topics.  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  I  made  these  subjects  interesting,  and  was 
amused  when  a  critic,  in  commending  this  "  new 
writer"  (Augustus  Holmes),  concluded  his  notice 
with  the  remark  :  "  It  would  be  well  if  more  men 
of  science  would  write  in  this  entertaining  style." 
For  serials  we  had  Mayne  Reid's  Afloat  in  the 
Forest,  Kellogg's  Good  Old  Times,  Carleton's 
Winning  his  Way,  Dr.  Isaac  I.  Hayes's  Cast  Away 
in  the  Cold,  Mrs.  Whitney's  We  Girls,  Mrs.  Diaz's 
William  Henry  Letters  (which,  although  not  in 
the  form  of  a  story,  were  in  their  naturalness  and 
humor  more  diverting  than  most  stories),  and,  to 
crown  all,  T.  B.  Aldrich's  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy. 


OUR  YOUNG  FOLKS  321 

III 

I  had  written  short  stories  for  the  magazine,  but 
none  continued  through  more  than  three  numbers, 
when,  in  the  fall  of  1 870,  after  I  had  become  man 
aging  editor,  I  consulted  the  publishers  as  to  whom 
I  should  invite  to  furnish  the  serial  for  the  ensuing 
year.  It  was  getting  late  in  the  season,  and  none 
had  as  yet  been  volunteered.  One  of  the  firm  gave 
me  a  droll  look  and  remarked,  in  the  words  of 
Priscilla,  "Why  don't  you  speak  for  yourself, 
John  ? "  I  asked  if  he  meant  it.  "  I  mean  it !  " 
he  answered  decisively. 

So  I  wrote  Jack  Hazard  and  his  Fortunes,  turn 
ing  aside  each  month  from  my  other  work  to  fur 
nish  the  installments,  which  ran  through  the  twelve 
numbers  of  1871.  For  a  subject  I  went  back  to 
the  Erie  Canal,  the  old  Ogden  homestead,  and 
Spencer's  Basin  ;  and  took  for  my  chief  character 
a  vicious  little  driver  with  intent  to  bring  out  what 
good  was  latent  in  him,  by  redeeming  him  from 
evil  influences  and  placing  him  in  favorable  sur 
roundings.  Connected  with  him  in  interest  was 
his  noble  Newfoundland  dog,  Lion.  The  old 
homestead  I  peopled  with  the  Chatford  family,  and 
gave  to  the  neighborhood  other  fictitious  charac 
ters,  all  true  to  the  life  I  had  known  there,  but 
none  of  them  portraits.  I  had  great  fun  in  writing 
the  story,  a  chapter  of  which  I  would  dash  off  at 


322  MY  OWN   STORY 

a  sitting,  in  an  afternoon,  and  perhaps  send  it  the 
next  day  to  the  printers,  with  hardly  an  erasure. 
In  each  mail  came  letters  showing  the  interest  of 
readers  everywhere  in  Jack  and  his  dog. 

The  story  had  been  the  leading  feature  eight  or 
nine  months,  when  the  same  member  of  the  firm 
who  had  suggested  my  undertaking  the  serial  (this 
was  Mr.  John  S.  Clark,  now  of  the  Prang  Educa 
tional  Company)  said  to  me,  "  It  won't  do  to  finish 
Jack's  Fortunes  in  the  December  number !  In 
completing  it  for  the  volume,  leave  it  open  for  a 
sequel,  which  we  will  announce  for  next  year. 
That  boy  and  dog  are  running  so  well  they  can't 
stop  for  another  twelvemonth,  sure  ! " 

Accordingly  I  followed  the  initial  story  with  A 
Chance  for  Himself,  and  that  in  turn,  for  similar 
reasons,  with  Doing  his  Best,  the  third  of  the  Jack 
Hazard  series.  I  had  already  begun  a  fourth,  Fast 
Friends,  the  first  chapters  of  which  were  in  type, 
with  a  large  part  of  the  magazine  number  for  Janu 
ary,  1874,  when  the  proverbial  "thunderbolt  out 
of  a  clear  sky  "  struck  the  publishing  house. 

IV 

The  sky  was  not  so  clear  as  it  had  seemed  to 
many  of  us  who  were  enjoying  the  fancied  security 
of  that  hospitable  roof.  Mr.  Fields  retired  from 
the  firm  in  1871,  and  Mr.  J.  R.  Osgood  (who,  like 


J.   T.   TROWBRIUGE 
At  the  age  of  46 


OUR  YOUNG   FOLKS  323 

Mr.  Fields,  had  risen  from  the  ranks  in  the  busi 
ness)  became  head  of  the  house.  He  was  able, 
honorable,  large-hearted,  but  aggressive  and  self- 
confident,  and  under  his  leadership  the  concern 
assumed  enterprises  involving  hazards  which  the 
other's  more  conservative  judgment  could  hardly 
have  sanctioned.  Of  these,  I  remember  most  about 
Every  Saturday,  which  began,  and  ran  some  time, 
as  a  modest  reprint  of  selections  from  foreign  pe 
riodicals  ;  but  which  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  (the  new 
firm)  changed  to  a  large  illustrated  sheet,  designed 
to  rival  Harper's  Weekly  in  popular  favor.  It  did 
not,  however,  prove  a  success ;  and  before  long 
financial  difficulties  necessitated  the  disposal  of 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  to  its  present  publishers, 
and  the  sale  of  Our  Young  Folks  to  Scribner  & 
Co.,  who  merged  it  in  St.  Nicholas. 

Thus  again  I  experienced  the  severance  of  agree 
able  and  advantageous  business  relations  that  I 
had  come  to  consider  permanent.  With  the  house 
established  by  the  elder  Ticknor,  as  with  that  of 
Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.,  I  had  esteemed  it  an 
honor  to  be  connected ;  and  once  more  I  felt  de 
prived  of  a  home.  The  "  Old  Corner  Bookstore  " 
(on  the  corner  of  Washington  and  School  streets) 
was  old  and  famous  as  early  as  when  I  first  came 
to  Boston.  Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.  had  Emerson 
and  Prescott  leading  their  list  of  authors ;  while 


324  MY  OWN   STORY 

Ticknor  &  Fields  were  the  publishers  of  Longfel 
low  and  Tennyson,  Lowell  and  Hawthorne,  and  all 
that  goodly  company  to  whose  names  Emerson's 
was  also  to  be  added  after  the  downfall  of  the 
other  house.  The  acquisition  at  the  same  time 
(1859)  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly  had  been  all  that 
was  needed  to  give  the  Old  Corner  unrivaled  pre 
eminence  as  representative  of  the  best  literature 
of  New  England,  and  of  Old  England  in  America. 
I  followed  The  Atlantic  with  my  contributions, 
which  led  to  the  publication  by  the  firm,  not  only 
of  my  books  for  the  young  growing  out  of  Our 
Young  Folks,  but  also  of  three  other  books,  of 
some  importance  at  least  to  their  author,  —  Cou 
pon  Bonds  and  Other  Stories,  consisting  chiefly  of 
contributions  I  had  made  to  The  Atlantic  and  Har 
per's  ;  and  two  volumes  of  verse,  The  Vagabonds 
and  Other  Poems,  and  The  Emigrant's  Story  and 
Other  Poems,  also  collected  from  periodicals.  The 
scattering  of  these  volumes  was  not  the  least  of 
the  casualties  I  had  to  deplore,  upon  the  passing 
of  the  firm  of  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  All,  however, 
went  into  good  hands ;  and  the  misfortune  that 
lost  me  the  editorship — to  which  I  had  become 
attached  by  so  many  interests  that  I  felt  the  loss 
as  a  personal  bereavement  —  brought  with  it,  as 
misfortunes  so  often  do,  its  compensation,  in  the 
freedom  it  gave  to  form  other  engagements. 


OUR  YOUNG  FOLKS  325 

V 

Along  with  Our  Young  Folks  the  new  serial  I 
had  commenced  writing  for  it  went  over  to  St. 
Nicholas,  the  chapters  I  had  put  into  type  for  our 
January  number  going  into  the  January  number 
of  that  magazine.  In  the  same  number  I  published 
a  card,  in  which,  as  editor,  I  took  leave  of  Our 
Young  Folks  readers,  and  bespoke  their  favor  for 
the  new  monthly. 

I  confidently  expected  to  finish  Jack's  career  in 
Fast  Friends,  but  that  story  had  been  running 
hardly  half  a  year  when  I  was  invited  to  New  York 
for  a  conference  with  Mr.  Roswell  Smith  and  Mrs. 
Dodge,  regarding  a  serial  for  the  ensuing  year 
(1875).  Mr.  Smith  was  Dr.  J.  G.  Holland's  part 
ner  in  the  publication  of  St.  Nicholas  and  Scrib- 
ner's  Monthly  (now  The  Century).  Mrs.  Dodge 
was  then,  as  always  after,  chief  editor  of  St.  Nicho 
las  ;  and  Frank  R.  Stockton,  at  that  time  unknown 
to  fame,  was,  as  I  well  remember,  her  office  assist 
ant.  For  a  couple  of  days  Mr.  Smith,  whose  guest 
I  was,  gave  a  large  part  of  his  leisure  to  making 
my  visit  pleasant  ;  and  I  came  home  with  a  com 
mission  to  write  a  fifth  Jack  Hazard  story,  The 
Young  Surveyor. 

This  was  the  last  of  the  series,  Jack  hav 
ing  reached  manhood,  and  won  the  hand  of  the 
heroine ;  but  it  was  not  the  last  of  my  continued 


326  MY   OWN   STORY 

stories  for  St.  Nicholas.  Others  of  a  similar  char 
acter  succeeded,  the  chief  of  which  were  His  Own 
Master,  The  Tinkham  Brothers'  Tide-Mill,  Toby 
Trafford  (written  at  Geneva,  during  my  second 
sojourn  abroad),  and,  passing  over  several  others, 
Two  Biddicut  Boys  (1897),  the  latest  up  to  this 
time  ;  all  republished  duly  in  book  form. 

VI 

While  I  was  still  connected  with  Our  Young 
Folks,  Mr.  Ford  (for  whom  I  had  previously  writ 
ten  a  good  deal  when  he  was  editor  of  the  Watch 
man  and  Reflector)  asked  me  for  contributions  to 
the  Youth's  Companion,  which  he  had  recently 
acquired.  The  Companion  had  been  started  early 
in  the  century  by  Nathaniel  Willis,  father  of  N.  P. 
Willis,  and  had  held  the  even  tenor  of  its  way  as 
a  rather  namby-pamby  child's  paper,  until  by  a 
curious  combination  of  circumstances  Mr.  Ford 
woke  up  one  morning  to  find  himself  its  sole  pro 
prietor.  It  had  then  about  five  thousand  subscrib 
ers.  Being  a  man  of  broad  business  views,  he 
had  at  first  hardly  dreamed  of  doing  much  with  it ; 
but  while  looking  about  for  an  enterprise  nearer 
the  level  of  his  ambition,  he  put  some  money  and 
a  good  deal  of  thought  and  energy  into  the  little 
paper.  He  was  reluctant,  he  once  frankly  con 
fessed  to  me,  to  connect  his  reputation  with  "  so 


THE  YOUTH'S    COMPANION          327 

small  an  affair ;  "  and  so  issued  it  over  the  ficti 
tious  firm  name  of  "Perry  Mason  &  Co.,"  by 
whom  it  purports  to  be  published  to  this  day.  It 
was  for  a  long  time  a  mystery,  even  to  those  who 
had  transactions  with  the  concern,  who  "Perry 
Mason  &  Co."  could  be.  There  was  then  no  other 
"  Perry  Mason  "  or  "  Co."  than  the  quiet  little  man 
with  the  pale  forehead  and  round  smooth  face, 
whose  plain  signature  was  to  become  so  familiar  to 
me,  signed  to  letters  and  checks,  Daniel  S.  Ford. 

My  engagement  with  Our  Young  Folks  prohib 
ited  me  from  writing  for  any  other  periodical,  ex 
cept  The  Atlantic,  to  which  I  remained  a  pretty 
constant  contributor  ;  but  as  soon  as  I  was  released 
from  that,  Mr.  Ford  again  called  on  me,  and  I 
went  over  to  the  Companion,  writing  for  it  stories 
long  and  short,  and  after  a  while  one  serial  a  year, 
for  many  years.  From  a  mere  child's  paper  he 
was  converting  it  rapidly  into  a  miscellany  of  the 
very  first  class  for  young  people  and  families.  Its 
circulation  increased  at  a  rate  that  astonished  Mr. 
Ford  himself,  rising  by  waves  and  tides  from 
thousands  to  hundreds  of  thousands.  Of  all  this 
I  felt  myself  a  part,  and  it  was  a  part  which  he 
was  always  magnanimous  in  recognizing. 

He  was  as  liberal  with  his  pay  as  he  was  with 
his  praise.  Both  may  have  been  designed  to  en 
courage  my  contributions ;  but  I  think  he  was  as 


328  MY   OWN   STORY 

sincere  in  the  one  as  he  was  generous  in  the  other. 
The  pay  he  increased  voluntarily,  without  any 
solicitation  on  my  part,  often  drawing  his  checks 
for  larger  sums  than  our  agreement  called  for,  and 
making  them  from  time  to  time  larger  and  larger, 
until  the  rate  of  compensation  became,  considering 
the  circumstances,  munificent.  Our  personal  re 
lations  were  of  the  pleasantest.  When  I  handed 
him  a  manuscript,  he  frequently  drew  his  check 
for  it  immediately,  without  reading  it ;  always 
urging  me  to  write  more. 

Unfortunately,  while  the  paper  was  building  up, 
his  health  was  breaking  down ;  he  became  simul 
taneously  an  invalid  and  a  millionaire.  I  was  one 
of  the  last  contributors  whom  he  continued  to  see 
and  transact  business  with  personally.  At  last  it 
became  so  difficult  for  him  to  meet  any  attaches 
of  the  paper  except  his  "  heads  of  departments," 
as  he  called  them,  that  I  discontinued  my  visits 
to  him,  some  time  in  1887.  The  business  of  the 
concern  had  then  grown  to  prodigious  propor 
tions.  He  had  as  many  heads  of  departments  as 
the  President  of  the  United  States,  and  the  paper 
circulated  over  half  a  million  copies.  I  once 
heard  Dr.  Holmes  wittily  describe  the  increase  in 
the  number  of  instructors  in  the  Medical  College 
since  his  time.  "Then,"  said  he,  "there  were 
five  or  six  of  us.  Now  there  are  over  seventy. 


DANIEL    S.    FORD 


THE  YOUTH'S   COMPANION          329 

The  roast  beef  of  yesterday  is  the  hashed  meat 
of  to-day."  The  change  in  Mr.  Ford's  working 
force,  from  the  time  when  I  began  with  him  to 
the  last  year  of  our  intercourse,  was  even  more 
surprising.  He  was  at  first  alone  in  the  editor 
ship  and  business  management.  Afterwards  Mr. 
Hezekiah  Butterworth  became  editorial  assistant 
Then  one  by  one  others  were  taken  on,  until 
there  were  anywhere  from  twelve  to  twenty  on 
the  editorial  staff  alone.  The  paper  in  the  mean 
while  adopted  the  policy  of  securing  for  its  adver 
tised  lists  of  contributors  banner  names,  which 
were  paid  for  and  paraded  at  a  cost  that  would 
have  ruined  in  a  single  season  a  periodical  of  less 
affluent  resources.  Even  members  of  the  Eng 
lish  royal  family  were  induced  to  become  con 
tributors  to  the  paper  which  Mr.  Ford,  a  few 
years  before,  had  been  unwilling  to  put  his  name 
to  as  publisher.  As  he  gradually  withdrew  from 
its  management  my  own  contributions  to  it  be 
came  fewer,  and  ceased  almost  altogether  during 
my  second  sojourn  in  Europe  from  1888  to  1891. 
I  could  never  feel  at  home  in  the  paper's  pala 
tial  new  quarters,  and  it  could  never  again  be  to 
me  what  it  had  been  in  the  era  of  its  earlier 
marvelous  growth,  and  in  the  happiest  days  of 
the  remarkable  man  who  may  be  said  to  have 
created  it. 


330  MY   OWN   STORY 

VII 

My  contributions  to  the  Companion  comprised, 
besides  a  large  number  of  short  stories  and  other 
sketches  and  poems,  some  of  my  most  success 
ful  serials,  among  these  The  Silver  Medal,  The 
Pocket  Rifle,  and  The  Little  Master.  All  the 
long  stories  and  many  of  the  short  ones,  like  my 
contributions  to  Our  Young  Folks  and  St.  Nicho 
las,  have  been  reissued  in  book  form. 

I  also  wrote  a  serial  for  one  sensational  paper, 
a  New  York  weekly.  Although  I  was  offered  an 
exceptionally  good  price  for  this,  I  hesitated  about 
accepting  it  until  I  had  consulted  two  or  three 
judicious  friends,  one  of  them  Mr.  Longfellow. 

"  Accept  it,  by  all  means  !  "  he  said.  "  Of 
course  you  will  not  write  down  to  the  level  of 
such  a  paper,  but  try  to  bring  it  up  to  your  level. 
You  will  have  an  audience  that  you  would  prob 
ably  reach  in  no  other  way."  And  he  added 
something  more  as  to  the  good  work  I  would  do 
by  showing  that  literature  could  be  entertaining 
without  being  melodramatic. 

I  furnished  the  story,  which,  while  not  at  all  sen 
sational,  won  the  approval  of  the  publishers,  and 
which  was  afterwards  included  in  my  sets  of  books 
for  the  young,  under  the  title  Bound  in  Honor. 

All  this  time  I  continued  subject  to  the  "bliss- 


BOOKS   FOR  THE  YOUNG  331 

ful  thralldom  of  the  Muse."  In  1877  I  published 
The  Book  of  Gold,  comprising,  with  the  title 
poem,  four  others  of  lesser  length,  all  of  which 
had  first  appeared  in  Harper's  Magazine,  illus 
trated  with  a  view  to  the  volume ;  A  Home  Idyl 
in  1 88 1,  and  The  Lost  Earl  in  1888,  both  likewise 
made  up  principally  of  my  metrical  contributions 
to  periodicals. 

In  addition  to  the  five  books  of  verse  already 
designated,  I  will  mention  Guy  Vernon,  in  a 
Masque  of  Poets  (1878),  of  the  authorship  of 
which  anonymous  novelette  in  verse  I  now  make 
public  acknowledgment. 

VIII 

My  stories,  written  ostensibly  for  the  young, 
were  intended  for  older  readers  as  well ;  and  this 
was  doubtless  one  secret  of  their  success.  I  was 
sometimes  amused  by  hearing  of  a  parent  carry 
ing  home  the  periodical  containing  an  installment 
of  one  of  my  serials,  and  hiding  it  from  the 
younger  members  of  the  household  until  he  had 
enjoyed  the  first  reading  of  the  chapters.  This 
was  one  of  the  satisfactions  that  reconciled  me  to 
a  kind  of  work  not  at  all  in  the  direction  of  my 
earlier  ambition,  but  which  a  sort  of  fatality  — 
perhaps  the  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends  —  led 
me  to  do. 


332  MY  OWN   STORY 

Once  when  I  was  trouting  in  a  mountain 
stream  I  came  to  one  of  those  pot-holes  that  peb 
bles  in  whirling  eddies  occasionally  scoop  in  the 
solid  ledge.  It  was  cask-shaped,  with  polished, 
bulging  sides,  and  it  was  filled  with  crystal-clear 
water,  in  the  depths  of  which  were  discernible 
fishes  of  extraordinary  size.  They  would  not  rise 
to  a  fly,  but  I  let  down  a  bait,  saw  one  of  the 
lusty  fellows  make  for  it,  and  drew  out  a  dace 
about  four  or  five  inches  long.  Wondering  how 
the  large  fish  had  missed  the  hook  and  allowed  a 
little  brother  to  take  it,  I  dropped  my  bait  again, 
once  more  saw  a  big  one  seize  it,  and  once  more 
pulled  out  a  small  wriggler.  I  had  to  repeat  this 
process  several  times  before  my  senses  were  con 
vinced  that  the  large  fishes  were  an  illusion,  oc 
casioned  by  a  combined  refraction  and  reflection 
of  light  in  the  oval-shaped  rocky  receptacle.  The 
giants  peopling  the  pot-hole  were  mere  pygmies, 
one  and  all. 

This  has  been  largely  my  experience  in  life. 
The  fish  in  the  pool  of  anticipation  has  (with  few 
exceptions)  appeared  vastly  larger  than  when  I 
caught  and  took  it  from  the  hook.  The  fame  and 
good  fortune  I  cast  my  line  for,  which  hope  and 
imagination  magnified  to  such  alluring  propor 
tions,  proved  but  modest  prizes,  when  landed  in 
the  light  of  common  day.  Likewise  the  great 


BOOKS  FOR  THE  YOUNG  333 

men  I  have  approached  have  proved  to  be  mor 
tals  with  the  usual  limitations,  when  I  have  come 
to  regard  them  at  short  range.  Instead  of  great 
epics  and  works  of  fiction  that  all  the  world  would 
be  waiting  to  acclaim,  I  have  written  some  minor 
poems  cared  for  by  a  few,  half  a  dozen  novels,  and 
a  large  number  of  smaller  books,  that  have  been 
successful  enough  in  their  way. 

These  last,  as  I  have  endeavored  to  show,  were 
written,  not  so  much  from  choice,  as  in  answer 
to  an  actual  immediate  demand  for  what,  as  it 
proved,  I  was  well  fitted  to  do,  namely,  a  style  of 
story  that  should  not  be  bad  as  literature,  and 
which  should  interest  at  the  same  time  young  and 
old.  This  I  have  been  the  more  willing  to  do 
because  the  love  story,  deemed  indispensable  in 
most  novels,  has  been  so  overdone  as  to  become 
flat  and  unprofitable  except  when  retouched  with 
exceptional  freshness  ;  and  because  I  was  glad  of 
an  opportunity  to  produce  a  sort  of  minor  novel 
true  to  life,  with  other  elements  of  interest  re 
placing  that  traditional  material.  Unquestion 
ably,  too,  I  obeyed  a  law  of  my  nature  in  moving 
on  lines  of  least  resistance.  In  novel-writing  I 
had  countless  competitors,  many  vastly  abler  than 
myself.  In  my  own  peculiar  field  I  was  alone. 

When  I  was  returning  from  the  World's  Fair 
in  1893,  a  young  woman  journalist  came  down 


334  MY  OWN   STORY 

from  Buffalo  to  Lockport  to  "  interview  "  me,  in 
my  brother's  house,  for  the  Illustrated  Express. 
In  her  three-column  article  in  that  paper  I  was  made 
to  say  many  things  differently  from  the  manner 
in  which  I  did  say  them,  and  others  that  I  did 
not  say  at  all,  as  is  common  with  "  interviewers  ;  " 
but  I  find  in  her  report  one  paragraph  which  so 
exactly  expressed  my  mind  upon  the  subject  of 
my  boys'  stories  that  I  reproduce  it  here.  "  Un 
doubtedly,"  I  said,  "  they  have  in  a  great  measure 
obscured  my  popularity  as  a  writer  of  verse.  I 
have  naturally  felt  somewhat  aggrieved  at  this. 
My  best,  fullest,  and  most  thoughtful  work  has 
been  woven  into  my  poems  ;  yet  I  find  myself  far 
more  widely  known  as  a  story-writer  than  as  a 
poet.  But  the  fact  has  its  compensations.  Wher 
ever  I  go  I  am  greeted  as  an  old  friend  by  boys, 
or  by  men  who  have  read  my  books  as  boys,  or, 
better  still,  I  receive  the  thanks  of  some  mother 
whose  boy  she  fancies  the  reading  of  my  books 
has  consoled  in  times  of  sickness,  or  perhaps 
helped  to  find,  and  inspired  to  keep,  the  right  road. 
I  don't  know  but  that,  after  all,  the  most  satisfac 
tory  monument  I  could  choose  would  be  to  live  in 
the  hearts  and  memories  of  mothers  and  boys." 


CHAPTER  XI 

RECOLLECTIONS    OF   EMERSON   AND    ALCOTT 


I  HAD  in  my  early  years  several  literary  passions, 
more  or  less  ardent  and  enduring.  The  first  were 
Scott  and  Byron,  the  idols  of  my  boyhood.  Then 
it  was  Poe,  the  melody  and  glamour  of  whose 
verse  had  for  me  an  indescribable  fascination. 
Afterwards  came  Tennyson,  who,  with  an  equal 
sensitiveness  to  beauty  and  the  magic  of  words, 
opened  fountains  of  thought  and  of  human  in 
terest  that  seemed  never  to  have  been  unsealed  in 
Poe.  Dickens  was  an  early  favorite ;  a  little  later 
Thackeray ;  and  I  had  unbounded  admiration  for 
Carlyle.  Shelley  I  never  greatly  cared  for,  except 
in  a  few  lyrics  (I  could  never  get  through  The 
Witch  of  Atlas  or  The  Revolt  of  Islam)  ;  —  he  had 
fine  yEolian  chords,  but  a  thin  sounding-board  ;  — 
and  Keats  was  too  luxurious  a  draught  to  be  more 
than  rarely  indulged  in.  At  one  time  I  addicted 
myself  to  Browning ;  and  Shakespeare  I  had  al 
ways  with  me.  Macaulay,  Montaigne,  Plato,  Whit 
man, —  to  each  of  these  I  gave  in  turn  seasons 


336  MY  OWN   STORY 

of  almost  exclusive  devotion.  But  of  all  writers 
ancient  or  modern,  poets,  philosophers,  prophets, 
the  one  to  whom  my  spiritual  indebtedness  was 
first  and  last  the  greatest,  was  Emerson. 

II 

I  heard  much  of  Emerson  during  my  first  years 
in  Boston,  but  through  such  false  echoes  that 
mere  prejudice  rendered  me  indifferent  to  the 
man  and  his  message.  More  than  to  any  other 
source,  I  owed  this  misconception  to  Boston's 
favorite  evening  paper,  whose  versatile  and  gifted 
editor  —  himself  a  poet,  the  author  of  at  least  one 
popular  song,  and  of  two  or  three  dramas  more  or 
less  successful  —  now  and  again  printed  extracts 
from  Emerson's  writings,  with  such  comments 
upon  them  as  perverted  their  meaning  and  ex 
posed  them  to  ridicule.  It  was  not  till  long  after 
this  that  my  own  experience  taught  me  to  dis 
trust  such  extracts ;  as  when  some  critic  accused 
me  of  making  the  new  moon  rise  in  the  east,  cit 
ing  from  one  of  my  stories  a  sentence  that  really 
seemed  to  convict  me  of  the  blunder  he  at  the 
same  time  charged  against  Coleridge,  in  the 
famous  lines,  — 

"  From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip  — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  hornld  moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip." 


EMERSON  AND   ALCOTT  337 

Just  what  the  Ancient  Mariner  had  in  his  vivid 
but  somewhat  ill-regulated  imagination,  I  will  not 
stop  to  discuss  ;  but  what  I  described  —  as  the 
context  would  have  shown  —  was  the  "  horned 
moon"  indeed,  rising  over  the  city  roofs  ;  not  the 
new  moon,  however,  but  the  old  moon,  —  not  cre 
scent  but  decrescent,  —  which  the  youthful  hero 
of  the  story,  in  studying  the  stars  from  his  scuttle 
window  too  long  past  midnight,  saw  (as  I  myself 
had  seen  it  in  just  such  circumstances)  soaring 
pale  and  ghost-like  in  the  morning  sky.  This  early 
moon  (which  Coleridge  undoubtedly  had  in  mind, 
with  the  morning  star  not  too  literally  "  within  the 
nether  tip  ")  my  critic  had  very  likely  never  ob 
served;  just  as  the  talented  editor  of  evening  news 
had  never  witnessed  those  splendors  of  the  spirit 
ual  dawn  which  the  poet-seer  discerned,  and  which 
his  detractors  saw  fit  to  discredit  and  deride. 

With  this  editor  (the  same  who  had  previously 
declined  to  print  my  sonnet  to  Theodore  Parker) 
I  became  acquainted  later,  and  found  him  to  be 
not  only  a  person  of  taste  and  culture,  as  his  own 
writings  showed,  but  a  fair-minded  man,  who 
would  not,  I  am  sure,  have  done  any  one  an  inten 
tional  wrong.  But  how  great  a  wrong  he  had 
done,  not  only  to  Emerson,  but  still  more  to  me, 
I  became  aware,  when  a  happy  chance  revealed  to 
me  the  constellations  of  thought  against  which  he 
had  so  long  helped  to  keep  my  scuttle  closed. 


338  MY  OWN   STORY 

It  was  a  passage  from  Emerson  in  Griswold's 
Prose  Writers  of  America  which,  by  its  incisive- 
ness  of  style  and  singular  suggestiveness,  startled 
me  as  by  a  new  discovery,  and  sent  me  hasting  to 
the  nearest  bookstore  for  the  first  volume  of  the 
Essays.  This  must  have  been  in  the  latter  part 
of  1852  ;  for  in  my  copy  of  the  Second  Series  I 
find  my  name  and  the  date  written,  "January, 
1853  ;  "  and  I  had  read,  and  proclaimed  from  the 
housetop  of  my  enthusiasm,  and  given  away,  the 
First  Essays,  before  I  procured  another  copy, 
along  with  the  Second  Series.  The  First  Series  I 
have  now  in  a  later  edition,  1859 ;  between  which 
and  the  earlier  one  I  must  have  possessed  and 
parted  with  several  successive  copies,  which  in 
those  days  I  had  a  mania  for  presenting  to  friends 
who  had  not  read  Emerson,  and  to  whom  I  ima 
gined  he  would  bring  as  welcome  a  revelation  as 
he  had  brought  to  me ;  choosing  always  the  First 
Series,  comprising  Self-Reliance,  Spiritual  Laws, 
and  Heroism,  for  that  propaganda.  It  was  a  fond 
illusion.  I  found  that  those  gift  copies  were  sel 
dom  read ;  or,  if  read  at  all,  that  their  beauties 
were  but  hazily  perceived,  and  their  skyey  herald- 
ings  unheeded. 

To  the  Essays  I  quickly  added  the  Poems,  Re 
presentative  Men,  Nature,  and  the  Addresses,  con 
tributions  to  The  Dial,  —  whatever  of  Emerson  I 


EMERSON   AND  ALCOTT  339 

could  lay  my  eager  hands  on.  No  words  of  mine 
are  adequate  to  describe  the  effect  upon  me  of 
those  extraordinary  writings.  It  was  more  like  the 
old-time  religious  conversion  or  change  of  heart 
than  anything  I  had  ever  before  experienced ; 
some  such  effect  as  the  best  Biblical  writings 
might  have  had,  if  I  could  have  brought  to  them 
as  fresh  and  receptive  a  mind,  undulled  by  the 
dreary  associations  of  my  Sunday-school  going  and 
pew-imprisoned  boyhood.  They  inspired  me  with 
self-trust ;  they  reinforced  my  perceptions,  and 
opened  new  vistas  of  ideas,  as  if  some  optic  glass 
of  highly  magnifying  and  separating  power  had 
been  added  to  my  hitherto  unaided  vision.  They 
caused  me  to  make  vows  to  truth,  to  purity,  to 
poverty,  —  if  poverty  should  be  the  penalty  of 
absolute  obedience  to  truth  ;  vows,  alas,  which  had 
often  to  be  renewed,  but  never  to  be  disowned  or 

renounced. 

Ill 

When  I  considered  by  what  misrepresentations 
I  had  been  kept  out  of  that  which  I  felt  to  be  an 
inestimable  birthright,  I  could  not  quite  forgive 
their  author  ;  and  I  had  afterwards  an  opportunity 
of  knowing  that  the  injury  had  touched  one  more 
deeply  concerned  than  I.  That  opportunity  came 
after  I  had  begun  to  publish  my  first  small  books 
through  Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.,  who  were  also 


340  MY   OWN   STORY 

the  publishers  of  Emerson's  volumes.  They  were 
at  the  same  time  issuing  a  series  of  English  clas 
sics,  under  the  supervision  of  the  Boston  editor  in 
question. 

Entering  the  bookstore  one  forenoon,  I  met  the 
said  editor  going  out ;  and  presently  saw  Emer 
son  at  a  shelf  examining  some  books.  In  the  pri 
vate  office  I  found  Mr.  Phillips,  who  received  me 
with  a  curious  smile,  and,  when  I  had  entered, 
closed  the  door.  Then  he  related  with  quiet  glee 
a  circumstance  that  had  just  occurred.  The  edi 
tor,  seeing  Emerson  at  the  book- shelves,  had 
asked  Mr.  Phillips  for  an  introduction  to  him.  Mr. 
Phillips  said,  "  I  will  consult  Mr.  Emerson ; "  and 
going  out  into  the  bookroom  he  proposed  the  pre 
sentation.  Emerson  bent  his  brows  and  responded 
in  his  slow,  emphatic  way,  — 

"  Sargent  ?  Mr.  Epes  Sargent,  of  the  Evening 
Transcript  ?  "  Then,  after  a  pause :  "  I  have  no 
thing  for  Mr.  Sargent,  and  Mr.  Sargent  has  nothing 
for  me."  Perfectly  dispassionate  and  dignified ; 
but  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  Mr. 
Phillips  had  to  go  back  to  his  visitor,  and  tell  him 
that  the  desired  introduction  was  declined.  I  was 
pleased  through  and  through  to  learn  how  my  own 
grievance  in  the  matter  had  been  atoned  for,  and 
still  more  interested  to  find  that  even  the  serene 
Concord  sage  was,  after  all,  human,  and  capable  of 


EMERSON   AND  ALCOTT  341 

a  righteous  resentment,  —  if  that  can  indeed  be 
called  by  so  misleading  a  name  which  was  more 
likely  the  feeling  he  avowed  in  his  letter  to  Henry 
Ware,  regarding  their  differences  of  opinion  :  "  I 
shall  read  what  you  and  other  good  men  write,  as 
I  have  always  done,  —  glad  when  you  speak  my 
thought,  and  skipping  the  page  that  has  nothing 
for  me."  He  simply  "  skipped  "  Mr.  Sargent. 

It  may  be  in  place  here  to  state  that  the  con 
servative  editor  grew  in  time  to  be  as  radical  as 
Parker,  if  not  as  transcendental  as  Emerson  ;  dur 
ing  the  war  of  emancipation  he  published  an  anti- 
slavery  novel,  and  afterwards  wrote  books  on 
spiritualism,  of  which  he  became  an  earnest  expo 
nent. 

That  the  average  editor  and  man  of  culture 
should  have  found  in  Emerson  many  enigmas 
seems  natural  enough,  and  hardly  to  need  an 
apology,  since  even  the  young  Cambridge  poet, 
Henry  W.  Longfellow,  could  write  in  a  letter  to 
his  father,  upon  the  appearance  of  the  first  book 
of  Essays,  in  1841,  that  it  was  "full  of  sublime 
prose  poetry,  magnificent  absurdities,  and  simple 
truths.  It  is  a  striking  book,  but  as  it  is  impossi 
ble  to  see  any  connection  between  the  ideas,  I  do 
not  think  it  would  please  you."  The  lack  of  con 
nection  was  indisputable ;  and,  if  a  fault,  charac 
teristic.  There  was  nothing  of  the  willow  or  the 


342  MY   OWN   STORY 

elm,  no  graceful  sweep  of  foliage  or  drooping  spray, 
in  the  mind  of  the  man  or  in  his  style  of  writing. 
His  ideas  were  like  the  needles  of  the  pine,  each 
separate,  pointed,  bristling,  in  number  infinite, 
crowning  the  stately  stem  that  was  a  symbol  of 
himself,  as  it  was  his  favorite  among  all  the  forest 
trees. 

Once  on  an  ocean  voyage  an  accomplished  Bel 
gian  who  was  coming  to  this  country  asked  me 
about  our  best  writers.  I  gave  him  a  volume  of 
Emefson,  and  he  undertook  the  essay  on  Man 
ners.  In  a  little  while  he  came  to  me  in  amaze 
ment  and  disgust,  declaring  that  there  was  no 
logical  sequence  in  the  thoughts.  I  said,  "That 
does  not  trouble  me.  I  see  the  mountain  peaks, 
and  take  for  granted  the  invisible  range  out  of 
which  they  rise."  But  for  him,  without  clear 
logical  sequence  there  was  no  such  thing  as  style. 

IV 

At  the  time  of  the  Sargent  episode  I  had  myself 
never  spoken  with  Emerson,  and  should  have 
deemed  it  high  presumption  on  my  part  to  ask  to 
be  presented  to  him.  All  the  more  gratifying 
therefore  was  the  way  in  which  our  first  interview 
came  about.  Entering  the  publisher's  private 
room  one  day,  I  found  Mr.  Emerson  there ;  and, 
having  said  "  Good-morning  "  to  Mr.  Phillips,  I 


EMERSON   AND   ALCOTT  343 

retired  to  the  bookroom.  There  Mr.  Phillips  came 
to  me  and  said  Mr.  Emerson  would  like  to  meet 
me.  Thrilled  with  happy  surprise,  yet  doubtful,  I 
said,  "  I  am  afraid  you  suggested  it !  "  "  Not  at 
all,"  he  replied.  "  When  you  spoke  to  me  in  the 
office,  he  kept  his  eyes  on  you ;  and  after  you  had 
gone  out,  he  asked,  '  Is  that  somebody  I  ought  to 
know  ? '  I  told  him  who  you  were,  and  he  said, 
'  I  wish  to  see  him  ! ' ' 

Just  when  this  occurred  I  cannot  now  recall,  ex 
cept  that  it  was  in  the  spring  of  the  year;  for 
when,  after  one  of  his  questions  I  told  him  that  I 
lived  in  Boston,  he  inquired,  "  How  can  you  spare 
the  country,  this  gay  spring  weather  ?  "  I  said, 
"  That  is  something  we  cannot  spare  altogether ; 
we  must  have  our  Woodnotes,  and  be  free  to  fol 
low  our  Forerunners."  The  moment  I  had  spoken 
I  feared  he  might  regard  the  allusion  to  his  poems 
as  idle  compliment ;  but  it  evidently  did  not  dis 
please  him.  With  his  "  wise,  sweet  smile,"  he  re 
marked,  "  I  confess  a  tender  interest  in  any  men 
tion  of  my  poems ;  I  am  so  seldom  reminded  that 
they  are  ever  read  by  anybody.  It  is  only  my 
prose  that  gives  them  a  sort  of  vicarious  vitality  ;  " 
a  just  statement  of  the  comparative  esteem  in 
which  his  prose  and  verse  were  held  in  those  early 
years  of  the  second  half  of  the  century.  After 
some  deprecatory  words  from  me,  he  went  on,  in 


344  MY   OWN   STORY 

his  peculiar,  hesitating  manner,  pausing  often  as 
if  seeking  the  right  word,  then  uttering  it  with  an 
emphasis  that  relieved  it  of  any  suspicion  of  uncer 
tainty  :  — 

"  I  feel  it  a  hardship  that  —  with  something  of 
a  lover's  passion  for  what  is  to  me  the  most  pre 
cious  thing  in  life,  poetry  —  I  have  no  gift  of 
fluency  in  it,  only  a  rude  and  stammering  utter 
ance." 

After  this  I  felt  there  was  no  longer  any  danger 
of  appearing  a  base  flatterer  ;  I  forgot  his  fine  in 
junction  of  forbearance,  in  the  presence  of  high 
behavior  to  refrain  from  speech,  — 

"  Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay ;  "  — 

and  averred  the  penetrating  thought,  often  the  in 
comparable  note  of  beauty  and  sweetness,  I  found 
in  his  verse,  citing  some  lines  that  at  least  attested 
an  appreciative  familiarity  with  it.  "  Here  and 
there  a  touch  ;  here  and  there  a  grain  among  the 
husks,"  he  smilingly  admitted.  To  all  which  I  lis 
tened  with  intense  interest,  having  hitherto  been 
barely  able  to  conceive  of  any  limitations,  con 
scious  or  other,  in  the  master  I  so  much  revered  ; 
fancying  the  rudenesses  he  deplored  to  be  an  es 
sential  part  of  his  scheme,  a  relieving  background 
to  his  beauties ;  fondly  imagining  some  magic  of 
genius  even  in  his  rare  grammatical  lapses,  like 


EMERSON   AND   ALCOTT  345 

the  strange  error  of  construction  in  these  lines, 
perpetuated,  I  think,  in  later  editions,  —  an  error 
which  a  simple  transposition  of  the  words  to  their 
natural  order  will  instantly  reveal,  — 

"  There  need  no  vows  to  bind 
Whom  not  each  other  seek,  but  find." 

The  talk  turning  upon  other  topics,  I  remem 
ber  particularly  what  was  -said  of  Alcott,  one  of 
whose  "  Conversations "  I  had  lately  attended, 
and  found,  as  I  confessed,  disappointing.  I  said, 
"  It  was  no  doubt  partly  my  fault  that  he  was  n't 
inspired  ;  for,  as  he  told  us  complacently  after 
wards,  '  a  wise  man  among  blockheads  is  the  great 
est  blockhead  of  all.'  " 

With  an  amused  smile  Emerson  replied,  "  That 
is  Alcott !  He  is  wise,  but  he  cannot  always  com 
mand  his  wisdom.  More  than  most  men,  he  needs 
provocation  —  and  the  happy  moment."  When  I 
asked  why  so  great  a  man  had  never  written  any 
thing  remarkable,  he  said,  "He  makes  sad  work 
indeed  when  he  attempts  to  put  his  thoughts  on 
paper;  as  if  the  jealous  Muse  forsook  him  the 
moment  he  betakes  himself  to  his  pen."  I  recall 
also  this  observation  :  "  He  has  precious  goods  on 
his  shelves  ;  but  he  has  no  show-window."  This 
was  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  the  "  show-window  " 
metaphor  used  in  this  way,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
think  it  originated  with  Emerson,  perhaps  on  this 


346  MY   OWN   STORY 

occasion.  I  myself  may  have  aided  to  popularize 
it  by  quoting  him. 

I  had  after  that  opportunities  of  seeing  the 
more  familiar  side  of  the  sage ;  and  I  remember 
how  scandalized  I  once  was,  at  a  Saturday  Club 
dinner  (when  I  was  present  as  a  guest,  not  as  a 
member),  to  hear  him  rallied  by  the  convivial  and 
too  irreverent  Horatio  Woodman  for  his  "  neglect 
of  duty "  and  "  want  of  conscience "  in  some 
business  of  the  club.  Emerson  took  the  badinage 
in  good  part,  answering,  in  a  sort  of  dazed  sur 
prise,  that  he  had  not  understood  just  what  part 
of  the  neglected  business  had  been  intrusted  to 
him.  "You  should  have  known,"  said  Wood 
man.  "  Every  member  of  this  club  is  expected 
to  do  his  duty."  I  could  n't  help  recalling  the 
incident,  a  few  years  later,  when  Woodman  sud 
denly  dropped  out,  not  only  from  the  Saturday 
Club,  but  from  all  business  and  social  circles  that 
knew  him  so  well  as  a  man  of  affairs  and  a  con- 
sorter  with  literary  celebrities ;  vanishing  in  a 
manner  that  unfortunately  gave  color  to  charges 
of  "  neglect  of  duty,"  and  even  of  the  more  serious 
"want,"  on  his  part. 

At  that  same  table  I,  for  the  first  and  only  time, 
saw  Emerson,  sitting  opposite  me,  light  a  cigar, 
and  pull  away  at  it  as  unconcernedly  as  the  least 
saintly  man  at  the  board.  That  he  should  partake 


EMERSON  AND  ALCOTT  347 

sparingly  of  wine,  I  regarded  as  fitting  enough. 
But  to  me  there  appeared  something  incongruous 
about  the  cigar,  I  hardly  know  why  ;  for  it  always 
seemed  right  and  proper  that  Holmes,  Lowell, 
and  even  Longfellow  should  smoke.  I  believe, 
however,  that  Emerson  did  not  have  the  tobacco 
habit.  His  indulgence  (if  it  was  an  indulgence) 
was  limited  to  rare  occasions. 


Emerson's  appearance  was  striking,  and  his 
manner  not  without  a  certain  austere  awkward 
ness,  especially  noticeable  on  the  lecture  platform, 
where  for  years  I  seldom  missed  an  opportunity 
of  hearing  him.  He  was  tall  and  spare,  with  a 
marked  stoop  of  the  shoulders,  a  head  carried 
slightly  forward,  and  fine  eyes  of  a  peculiar  peer 
ing,  penetrating  expression.  The  strong  aquiline 
nose  was  the  most  characteristic  feature,  but  he 
had  ears  to  match  ;  they  were  the  side  wheels  to 
that  prow ;  viewed  behind,  they  stood  out  from 
his  head  like  wings  borrowed  from  the  feet  of 
Mercury.  The  head  itself  was  one  to  baffle 
phrenology.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  re 
markable  about  it  except  its  unusual  height  in 
the  spiritual  and  moral  regions,  veneration,  firm 
ness,  self-esteem.  It  was  otherwise  almost  com 
monplace,  full  in  the  observing  faculties,  but 


348  MY  OWN   STORY 

falling  away  to  flatness  in  what  is  known  as 
causality  ;  likewise  full,  however,  in  ideality  and 
sublimity.  His  power  did  not  lie  in  the  so-called 
reasoning  faculties ;  he  neither  possessed  nor 
overmuch  esteemed  the  gifts  of  the  controver 
sialist  and  the  dialectician.  He  never  argued,  he 
announced ;  what  was  reasoning  in  others  was  in 
him  a  questioning  of  the  perceptions.  To  all  this 
add  temperament,  genius,  the  torrential  source  of 
being  we  name  the  soul,  elusive  to  the  anatomist, 
and  to  the  fumbling  fingers  of  the  phrenologist 
forever  past  finding  out. 

In  lecturing  he  had  but  one  gesture,  ?  down 
ward  thrust  of  his  clenched  right  hand,  held  con 
torted  and  tense  at  his  side,  and  used  with  uncon 
scious  earnestness  in  driving  his  imaginary  stakes. 
He  was  at  times  amusingly  careless  with  his  manu 
script,  losing  his  place  and  searching  for  it  with 
stoical  indifference  to  his  patiently  waiting  audi 
ence, —  "up  to  my  old  tricks,"  as  I  once  heard 
him  say,  when  he  was  an  unusually  long  time 
shuffling  the  misplaced  leaves.  He  had  the  same 
habit  that  marked  his  conversation,  of  seeming 
often  to  pause  and  hesitate  before  coming  down 
with  force  upon  the  important  word.  His  voice 
was  a  pure  baritone,  and  a  perfect  vehicle  for  his 
thought,  which  in  great  and  happy  moments  im 
parted  to  it  a  quality  I  never  heard  in  any  other 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON 


EMERSON  AND   ALCOTT  349 

human  speech.  Schools  of  orator)',  teachers  of 
elocution,  might  have  learned  a  new  lesson  from 
those  resonant  intonations  ;  and  I  knew  at  least 
one  professor  of  the  art  who  studied  them  with 
the  closest  admiring  attentiveness.  Professor 
Lewis  Monroe,  who  had  himself  a  voice  of  extra 
ordinary  breadth  and  mellowness  and  of  highest 
culture,  once  said  to  me,  as  we  walked  away 
together  from  one  of  the  lectures,  "  Those  tones 
cannot  be  taught  ;  they  are  possible  only  to  him 
who  can  fill  them  with  the  same  energy  of  spirit ; 
it  is  the  soul  that  creates  that  voice."  \Yendell 
Phillips  had  an  organ  of  greater  range,  on  the 
whole  the  most  effective  oratorical  instrument  I 
ever  heard ;  it  had  all  the  notes  of  persuasion, 
sarcasm,  invective,  impassioned  appeal  ;  in  its 
combination  of  qualities  surpassing  that  of  the 
graceful  and  finished  Everett,  the  witty  and  fa 
miliar  Beecher,  the  too  ponderous  Sumner,  the 
almost  inspired  Kossuth,  —  even  the  voice  of  the 
great  Webster,  as  I  heard  it,  probably  in  its 
decadence,  when  the  worn  and  weary  statesman 
was  lifted  to  his  feet,  to  make  his  last  speech  in 
Faneuil  Hall.  Emerson  was  no  orator,  like  either 
of  these  ;  he  had  no  gift  of  extemporary  utterance, 
no  outburst  of  improvisation.  But  in  the  expres 
sion  of  ethical  thought,  or  in  downright  moral 
vehemence,  I  believed  and  still  believe  him  tin- 


3so  MY  OWN   STORY 

equaled.  Well  I  remember  how  he  once  thrilled 
an  immense  audience  in  Tremont  Temple,  in  the 
Kansas  Free  State  war  days,  in  speaking  of  the 
principles  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
which  Rufus  Choate  had  recently  brushed  rather 
contemptuously  aside  as  "glittering  generalities." 
Emerson  quoted  the  phrase  ;  then  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause,  hurled  at  the  remotest  benches 
these  words,  like  ringing  javelins  :  "  They  do 
glitter  !  they  have  a  right  to  glitter  !  "  with  a 
concentrated  power  no  orator  could  have  sur 
passed. 

VI 

The  Alcott  Conversation  to  which  I  have  al 
luded  was  held  one  evening,  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Alonzo  Newton,  in  Cambridge ;  and  there  were 
present,  besides  myself,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Newton  and 
Mr.  Lewis  Monroe,  all  eager  for  new  thought 
and  full  of  the  joyous  anticipation  of  listening  to 
so  sublime  a  teacher.  I  recollect  his  main  stock 
of  ideas,  —  upon  diet  (he  was  a  vegetarian,  as  I 
had  once  been  for  a  good  twelvemonth)  ;  upon 
temperament,  insisting  upon  the  superiority  of 
the  light,  or  angelic,  to  the  dark,  or  demonic,  and 
instancing  himself  and  Emerson  as  types  of  the 
"highest,"  Mrs.  Newton  and  myself  as  "almost 
the  highest,"  and  Mr.  Newton  and  Mr.  Monroe 
as  much  lower  in  the  scale ;  then,  among  other 


EMERSON  AND  ALCOTT  351 

things,  the  proper  attitude  of  a  wise  man  uttering 
his  wisdom,  —  not  standing,  but  seated  (he  himself 
always  sat).  As  Monroe  had  aspirations  toward 
oratory,  and  usually  felt  an  impulse  to  rise  to  his 
feet  when  he  had  anything  impressive  to  say  even 
to  a  small  audience,  he  ventured  a  question  on 
that  point ;  to  which  Alcott  answered  serenely 
that  such  an  attitude  might  be  natural  to  a  person 
of  the  inferior  temperament,  but  not  to  one  of  the 
purer  type.  I  said  I  should  hardly  suppose  that 
temperament  had  so  much  to  do  with  it,  in  Mon 
roe's  case,  as  his  habit  in  teaching;  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  talking  on  his  feet ;  I  was  not,  and  would 
never  talk  on  my  feet,  if  I  could  help  it.  Alcott 
said  oracularly,  "  I  teach  ;  I  sit." 

He  thereupon  took  from  his  pocket  a  limp- 
covered  book  in  which  were  copied  or  pasted 
selections  that  he  at  times  relied  upon  to  help 
out  his  Conversations.  He  first  read  Emerson's 
Bacchus  (which  I  knew  by  heart),  and  read  it 
badly,  in  a  sort  of  schoolboy  manner,  amazing  in 
one  who  called  himself  a  teacher,  and  who  had 
in  fact  been  a  school-teacher  many  years  of  his 
life.  This  he  followed  with  The  Goblet,  the  first 
lines  of  which  were  indelibly  impressed  upon 
my  memory  by  the  twang  and  unction  of  his 
intonations. 


352  MY  OWN   STORY 

"  I  drank  the  dregs  of  every  cup, 
All  institutions  I  drank  up ; 
But  still  one  cup  remains  for  me, 
The  sacred  cup  of  Family." 

"  That  is  not  Emerson's  ? "  I  commented,  al 
though  the  poem  had  lines  in  Emerson's  manner, 

—  I  should  say  now  in  Emerson's  worst  manner. 
"  It  is  —  not  —  Emerson's,"  Alcott  slowly  re 
plied  ;  and  as  no  further  comment  was  forthcom 
ing,  he  closed  the  book,  in  a  dead  silence.    I  knew 
then  that  the  poem  was  his  own,  as  well  as  I  did 
when  I  saw  it  long  afterwards  in  his  Tablets,  with 
emendations,  and  —  what   was   still   more  to  its 
advantage  —  without  the  singsong.     As  Monroe 
was  then  beginning  his  great  work  as  a  teacher  of 
elocution,  which  finally  developed  into  the  School 
of  Oratory  (of  Boston  University),  and  as  the  first 
principle  of  his  system  was  absolute  naturalness 
of  tone  and  emphasis,  I  felt  —  and  indeed  a  glance 
at  his  countenance  during  the  reading  assured  me 

—  that  he  had  pleasantly  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  having  his  impulse  as  to  attitude  condemned 
by  our  philosopher  as  belonging  to  the  lower  tem 
perament. 

After  that,  more  abstruse  subjects  were  intro 
duced,  and  Alcott  threw  out  some  of  his  transcen 
dental  ideas,  not  with  any  coherence  or  coordina 
tion,  but  rather  in  hints  and  tangents.  These 


LEWIS    H.    MONROE 

At  the  age  of  38 


EMERSON   AND   ALCOTT  353 

regarded  preexistence,  —  which  he  entertained 
not  poetically,  like  Wordsworth  in  his  Intimations, 
but  more  literally  even  than  Plato,  from  whom  his 
particular  views  on  the  subject  appeared  to  have 
been  derived,  —  with  especial  reference  to  the 
"lapse."  By  this  he  meant  the  lapse  from  the 
original  state  of  perfection  in  which  the  souls  of 
men  were  created,  and  from  which  they  fell  be 
fore  they  were  born  into  the  world,  or  there  was  a 
world  for  them  to  be  born  into.  The  creation  of 
the  world  itself  seemed  to  have  been  disastrously 
affected  by  this  lapse.  As,  according  to  Spenser, 
whose  familiar  line  he  quoted,  — 

"  Soule  is  forme,  and  doth  the  bodie  make,"  — 

so,  according  to  Alcott,  by  a  supposed  law  of  cor 
respondences  more  subtle  than  Swedenborg's,  the 
soul  of  man  made  the  world,  and,  because  of  the 
said  lapse,  flawed  it  with  imperfections.  Reptiles 
and  other  malignant  and  grotesque  creatures  were 
merely  man's  low  thoughts  and  evil  dispositions 
projected  into  those  concrete  forms.  It  was  anew 
juggling  of  the  old  riddle,  —  if  man  was  created 
perfect,  how  could  he  fall  ?  and,  since  a  sinless 
deity  could  not  have  created  sin,  how  came  sin  into 
the  world  ?  It  was  hard  to  tell  whether  this  curi 
ous  readaptation  of  the  Calvinistic  dogmas  of  the 
fall  of  man  and  the  origin  of  evil,  with  its  strong 


354  MY  OWN   STORY 

flavor  of  Neo-Platonism,  was  to  be  received  as 
fact  or  fable  ;  but  what  I  learned  subsequently  of 
Alcott's  philosophy  convinced  me  that  it  was  seri 
ously  meant.  Even  in  those  early  days,  before 
the  publication  of  The  Origin  of  Species  had  revo 
lutionized  nineteenth-century  thought,  the  best 
minds  were  coming  gradually  to  a  perception  of 
the  truth,  —  more  or  less  dimly  foreshadowed  by 
here  and  there  a  writer  ancient  or  modern,  —  that 
the  methods  of  nature  are  evolutionary ;  that,  as 
Emerson  expressed  it,  in  the  fine  pre-Darwinian 
lines,  — 

"  Striving  to  be  man,  the  worm 
Mounts  through  all  the  spires  of  form." 

But  Alcott's  theory  was  quite  the  reverse  of  this, 
—  that  man,  instead  of  ascending  through  nature, 
had  descended  into  it  from  some  previous  state 
of  existence,  and  had  muddled  it.  Much  of  this 
appeared  to  me  hazy  fantasticality.  We  found  him, 
nevertheless,  an  interesting  man,  and  well  worth 
our  money  (his  fee  for  a  Conversation  was  any 
where  from  five  dollars  upwards,  or  whatever  his 
friends  chose  to  give  him)  ;  although  this  particu 
lar  Conversation  proved,  as  I  confessed  to  Emer 
son,  disappointing. 

VII 

Some  time  after  this  I  had  the  pleasure  of  at 
tending  another  of  these  Conversations,  which  was 


EMERSON   AND   ALCOTT  355 

held  at  the  house  of  Dr.  William  F.  Channing,  — 
a  son  of  the  great  Channing,  and  a  man  of  scien 
tific  attainments,  well  known  at  that  time  as  the 
inventor  of  Boston's  system  of  electric  fire  alarm. 
Alcott  should  on  that  occasion  have  talked  well, 
if  ever  ;  for  there  were  present,  besides  Channing 
and  other  persons  of  culture,  Whipple  the  essayist, 
and  Emerson  himself.  Even  in  that  atmosphere 
his  genius  spread  but  feeble  and  ineffectual  wings. 
The  Conversation  was  much  more  constrained 
than  it  had  been  in  the  smaller  company  at  Mr. 
Newton's  ;  and  I  remember  how  depressingly  it 
flagged,  until  Emerson,  as  if  to  prompt  his  friend, 
perhaps  also  to  give  him  a  hint  as  to  his  inert  con 
dition  and  a  chance  to  explain  himself  out  of  it, 
spoke  of  the  intermittence  of  the  divine  influx, 
saying  with  his  customary  alternating  pause  and 
compensating  emphasis,  —  "What  do  you  think 
of  the  —  solstice  ?  of  the  —  eclipse  ?  We  are  not 
always  —  in  the  sun." 

Yet  with  that  opening  Alcott  had  only  cloudy 
and  commonplace  suggestions  to  make,  regarding 
reaction  after  effort,  periods  of  rest,  and  the  like ; 
never  once  soaring  into  the  blue.  I  could  not 
help  recalling,  and  wishing  to  quote,  the  fine  sen 
tences  Emerson  himself  had  struck  out  on  this 
theme,  in  one  of  his  essays,  writing  of  the  differ 
ence  between  one  hour  and  another  in  life  ;  of  our 


356  MY  OWN   STORY 

faith  coming  in  moments,  our  power  descending 
into  us  we  know  not  whence  ;  and  of  our  being 
pensioners  of  this  ethereal  river  whose  flowing  we 
neither  control  nor  comprehend.  I  was  able  sub 
sequently  to  recall  many  things  said  by  others  that 
evening,  although  nobody  talked  particularly  well ; 
but  hardly  anything  of  Alcott's.  His  part  in  the 
Conversation  seemed  strangely  lacking  in  spon 
taneity  and  point.  If  to  me  so  much  less  memo 
rable  than  I  had  previously  found  it,  at  my  friend's 
house  in  Cambridge,  it  could  not,  I  am  sure,  have 
been  altogether  owing  to  my  greater  susceptibility 
to  the  first  impression. 

VIII 

Alcott  was  tall  and  well  proportioned,  with  thin 
white  hair  worn  in  long,  flowing  locks,  a  pure,  pale 
complexion,  placid  features,  and  a  rather  loose 
mouth.  Placidity  appeared  to  be  his  normal  con 
dition,  from  which  you  would  have  said  no  con 
ceivable  circumstances  could  rouse  him  to  any  dis 
play  of  energy.  If  an  acquaintance  met  him  in 
the  woods,  he  could  be  counted  upon  to  do  two 
things,  —  begin  to  discourse,  and  to  look  about 
for  a  log  to  sit  down  on.  He  began  life  as  a 
Yankee  peddler  ;  but  that  occupation,  commonly 
thought  inseparable  from  shrewdness  and  an  eye 
for  the  dollar,  did  not  seem  to  have  developed  in 


EMERSON   AND   ALCOTT  357 

him  a  sense  of  the  practical  value  of  money,  or  of 
pecuniary  obligation.  He  had  perfect  faith  in  a 
Providence  that  justified  the  ways  and  looked  out 
for  the  welfare  of  the  saints.  A  friend  of  mine 
once  saw  him  on  a  Nantasket  boat,  without  a 
ticket,  or  money  to  pay  for  one.  When  called 
to  account  by  the  fare-taker,  he  remarked  inno 
cently  that  the  trip  had  attracted  him,  and  that  he 
believed  "there  would  be  some  provision" — a 
belief  that  was  immediately  vindicated  by  a  pas 
senger  recognizing  him,  and  stepping  up  to  make 
the  said  "  provision."  There  were  times,  before 
his  daughter  Louisa  began  to  earn  money  by  her 
facile  and  popular  pen,  when  the  family  would 
have  starved  but  for  the  generous  gifts  of  Emer 
son  and  others,  and  the  energies  of  Mrs.  Alcott,  a 
woman  of  great  worth  and  good  sense,  who  kept 
the  wolf  from  the  door  while  her  husband  dreamed 
dreams. 

I  met  him  occasionally  in  those  years,  and  tried 
hard  to  accept  his  own  estimate  of  himself,  and 
to  see  in  him  what  Emerson  saw.  His  own  esti 
mate  and  what  Emerson  saw  are  curiously  shown 
in  a  passage  from  Emerson's  diary,  quoted  in  San- 
born's  Life  of  Alcott :  "  I  said  to  him,  'A  great 
man  formulates  his  thought.  Who  can  tell  what 
you  exist  to  say  ?  You  at  least  ought  to  say  what 
is  your  thought,  what  you  stand  for.'  He  looked 


358  MY  OWN   STORY 

about  a  little  and  answered  that  he  '  had  not  a  lec 
ture  or  a  book,  —  but  if  Zoroaster,  Pythagoras, 
Socrates,  Behmen,  Swedenborg  were  to  meet  in 
this  town,  he  should  not  be  ashamed,  but  should 
be  free  of  that  company.'  It  was  well  said,  and 
I  know  not  whom  in  this  country  they  would  ask 
for  so  readily." 

I  wrote  once,  in  an  epigram  intended  for  the 
eye  of  a  friend :  — 

Do  you  care  to  meet  Alcott  ?    His  mind  is  a  mirror, 
Reflecting  the  unspoken  thought  of  his  hearer  : 
To  the  great  he  is  great ;  to  the  fool  he 's  a  fool : 
In  the  world's  dreary  desert  a  crystalline  pool, 
Where  a  lion  looks  in  and  a  lion  appears ; 
But  an  ass  will  see  only  his  own  ass's  ears. 

But  he  was  not  always  great  even  to  the  great. 
Margaret  Fuller,  who  had  unsurpassed  opportuni 
ties  of  judging  him,  having  known  him  intimately 
for  years  and  been  associated  with  him  in  his 
famous  Boston  school,  —  of  whom  he  himself  wrote 
(in  his  diary)  that  she  had  "  a  deeper  insight  into 
character  than  any  of  her  contemporaries," 
never  found  Alcott  "  great "  until  on  one  happy 
occasion,  regarding  which  she  wrote  to  Emerson, 
"  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  deserves  your  praise, 
and  that  he  deceived  neither  you  nor  himself  in 
saying  I  had  not  yet  seen  him."  This  seems, 
however,  to  have  been  an  exceptional  experience 


A.    BRONSON    ALCOTT 


EMERSON   AND   ALCOTT  359 

on  the  part  of  Miss  Fuller.  If  it  took  the  fore 
most  woman  of  her  day  so  long  to  obtain  even 
that  glimpse,  it  is  small  wonder  that  to  so  many 
who  lacked  her  opportunities  the  "lion"  should 
have  remained  un revealed. 

When  I  found  that  even  his  most  illustrious 
friend  failed  at  times  to  evoke  a  luminous  image 
from  the  pool  that  to  my  apprehension  appeared 
oftener  stagnant  than  crystalline,  I  was  still  bound 
to  credit  those  who  discovered  in  him  a  profundity 
I  could  never  perceive.  Yet  I  have  marveled  not 
a  little  at  Emerson's  taking  so  seriously  preten 
sions  that  must  even  to  him  at  times  have  seemed 
grotesque,  as  when  Alcott  once  said  to  him  (as 
cited  again  in  Sanborn's  Life  of  Alcott),  "  You 
write  of  Plato,  Pythagoras,  Jesus ;  why  do  not  you 
write  of  me  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XII 

WALT  WHITMAN  -^-  WITH  GLIMPSES  OF  CHASE 
AND  O'CONNOR 


I  FIRST  made  acquaintance  with  Whitman's  writ 
ings  when  a  newspaper  notice  of  the  earliest  edi 
tion  of  Leaves  of  Grass  reached  me,  in  Paris,  in 
the  autumn  of  1855.  It  was  the  most  exhilarating 
piece  of  news  I  had  received  from  America  during 
the  six  months  of  my  absence  abroad.  Such  vigor, 
such  graphic  force,  such  human  sympathy,  such 
scope  and  audacity  in  the  choice  and  treatment  of 
themes,  found  in  me  an  eagerly  interested  reader 
of  the  copious  extracts  which  the  notice  contained. 
When  I  came  to  see  the  volume  itself,  — the  thin, 
small  quarto  of  1855,  — I  found  in  it  much  that 
impressed  me  as  formless  and  needlessly  offensive  ; 
and  these  faults  were  carried  to  extremes  in  the 
second  and  enlarged  edition  of  1856.  Yet  the 
tremendous  original  power  of  this  new  bard,  and 
the  freshness,  as  of  nature  itself,  which  breathed 
through  the  best  of  his  songs  or  sayings,  continued 
to  hold  their  spell  over  me,  and  inspired  me  with 


WALT   WHITMAN  36! 

intense  curiosity  as  to  the  man.  But  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  meeting  him  till  he  came  to  Boston 
in  the  spring  of  1860,  to  put  his  third  edition 
through  the  press. 

Then,  one  day,  I  was  stopped  on  Washington 
Street  by  a  friend  who  made  this  startling  an 
nouncement  :  "  Walt  Whitman  is  in  town  ;  I  have 
just  seen  him  !  "  When  I  asked  where,  he  replied  : 
"At  the  stereotype  foundry,  just  around  the 
corner.  Come  along  !  I  '11  take  you  to  him."  The 
author  of  Leaves  of  Grass  had  loomed  so  large  in 
my  imagination  as  to  seem  almost  superhuman  ; 
and  I  was  filled  with  some  such  feeling  of  wonder 
and  astonishment  as  if  I  had  been  invited  to  meet 
Socrates  or  King  Solomon. 

We  found  a  large,  gray-haired  and  gray-bearded, 
plainly  dressed  man,  reading  proof-sheets  at  a  desk 
in  a  little  dingy  office,  with  a  lank,  unwholesome- 
looking  lad  at  his  elbow,  listlessly  watching  him. 
The  man  was  Whitman,  and  the  proofs  were  those 
of  his  new  edition.  There  was  a  scarcity  of  chairs, 
and  Whitman,  rising  to  receive  us,  offered  me  his  ; 
but  we  all  remained  standing  except  the  sickly 
looking  lad,  who  kept  his  seat  until  Whitman 
turned  to  him  and  said,  "  You  'd  better  go  now  ; 
I  '11  see  you  this  evening."  After  he  had  gone 
out,  Whitman  explained  :  "  He  is  a  friendless  boy 
I  found  at  my  boarding  place.  I  am  trying  to 


362  MY   OWN   STORY 

cheer  him  up  and  strengthen  him  with  my  mag 
netism  ; "  a  practical  but  curiously  prosaic  illus 
tration  of  these  powerful  lines  in  the  early 
poems  :  — 

"  To  any  one  dying,  thither  I  speed  and  twist  the  knob  of  the 

door.  .  .  . 
I  seize  the  descending  man,  I  raise  him  with  resistless  will.  .  .  . 

0  despairer,  here  is  my  neck,  hang  your  whole  weight  upon  me  ! 

1  dilate  you  with  tremendous  breath,  I  buoy  you  up, 

Every  room  of  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  armed  force,  lovers  of 

me,  bafflers  of  graves ; 
Sleep  I  they  and  I  keep  guard  all  night, 
Not  doubt,  not  decease  shall  dare  to  lay  finger  upon  you." 

The  difference  between  the  prosaic  fact  and  the 
poetic  expression  was  not  greater  than  the  contrast 
between  Whitman  as  I  had  imagined  him  and  the 
simple,  well-mannered  man  who  stood  and  talked 
with  us.  From  his  own  descriptions  of  himself, 
and  from  the  swing  and  impetus  of  his  lines,  I 
had  pictured  him  proud,  alert,  grandiose,  defiant  of 
the  usages  of  society ;  and  I  found  him  the  quiet 
est  of  men.  I  really  remember  but  one  thing  he 
said,  after  sending  away  the  boy.  The  talk  turning 
on  his  proof-sheets,  I  asked  how  the  first  poems 
impressed  him,  at  this  re-reading ;  to  which  he 
replied,  "  I  am  astonished  to  find  myself  capable 
of  feeling  so  much."  The  conversation  was  all 
very  quiet,  pitched  in  a  low  key,  and  I  went  away 
somewhat  disappointed  that  he  did  not  say  or  do 


WALT  WHITMAN  363 

something  extraordinary  and  admirable ;  one  of 
the  noticeable  things  about  him  being  an  absence 
of  all  effort  to  make  a  good  impression. 

II 

I  got  on  vastly  better  with  him  when,  the  next 
Sunday  morning,  he  came  out  to  see  me  on  Pros 
pect  Hill,  in  Somerville,  where  I  was  then  living 
(in  the  later  home  of  the  Newtons). 

The  weather  was  perfect,  —  it  was  early  May  ; 
the  few  friends  I  introduced  to  him  were  congenial 
spirits  ;  he  was  happy  and  animated,  and  we  spent 
the  day  together  in  such  hearty  and  familiar  inter 
course  that  when  I  parted  with  him  in  the  evening, 
on  East  Cambridge  bridge,  having  walked  with 
him  thus  far  on  his  way  back  to  Boston,  I  felt  that 
a  large,  new  friendship  had  shed  a  glow  on  my 
life.  Of  much  of  that  day's  talk  I  have  a  vivid 
recollection,  —  even  of  its  trivialities.  He  was  not 
a  loud  laugher,  and  rarely  made  a  joke,  but  he 
greatly  enjoyed  the  pleasantries  of  others.  He 
liked  especially  any  allusion,  serious  or  jocular,  to 
his  poems.  When,  at  dinner,  preparing  my  dish 
of  salad,  I  remarked  that  I  was  employed  as  his 
critics  would  be  when  his  new  edition  was  out,  he 
queried,  "Devouring  Leaves  of  Grass  ?"  "  No," 
I  said,  "  cutting  up  Leaves  of  Grass ! "  —  which 
amused  him  more,  I  fancy,  than  the  cutting  up 


364  MY  OWN   STORY 

did  that  came  later.  As  the  afternoon  waned, 
and  he  spoke  of  leaving  us,  the  vivacious  hostess 
placed  a  book  before  the  face  of  the  clock.  I 
said  "  Put  Leaves  of  Grass  there.  Nobody  can 
see  through  that."  "  Not  even  the  author  ?  "  he 
said,  with  a  whimsical  lifting  of  the  brows. 

Much  of  the  talk  was  about  himself  and  his 
poems,  in  every  particular  of  which  I  was  pro 
foundly  interested.  He  told  me  of  his  boyhood 
in  Brooklyn  ;  going  to  work  in  a  printing  office  at 
the  age  of  fourteen  ;  teaching  school  at  seventeen 
and  eighteen;  writing  stories  and  sketches  for 
periodicals  under  his  full  name,  Walter  Whitman 
(his  first  Leaves  of  Grass  was  copyrighted  by 
Walter  Whitman,  after  which  he  discarded  "  Wal 
ter  "  for  "  Walt ") ;  editing  newspapers  and  mak 
ing  political  speeches,  on  the  Democratic  side ; 
leading  an  impulsive,  irregular  sort  of  life,  and 
absorbing,  as  probably  no  other  man  ever  did,  the 
common  aspects  of  the  cities  he  was  so  proud  of, 
Brooklyn  and  New  York.  His  friendships  were 
mostly  with  the  common  people,  —  pilots,  drivers, 
mechanics ;  and  his  favorite  diversions  crossing 
the  ferries,  riding  on  the  top  of  omnibuses,  and 
attending  operas.  He  liked  to  get  off  alone  by 
the  seashore,  read  Homer  and  Ossian  with  the 
salt  air  on  his  cheeks,  and  shout  their  winged 
words  to  the  winds  and  waves.  The  book  he 


WALT  WHITMAN  365 

knew  best  was  the  Bible,  the  prophetical  parts  of 
which  stirred  in  him  a  vague  desire  to  be  the  bard 
or  prophet  of  his  own  time  and  country. 

Then,  at  the  right  moment,  he  read  Emerson. 

Ill 

I  was  extremely  interested  to  know  how  far  the 
influence  of  our  greatest  writer  had  been  felt  in 
the  making  of  a  book  which,  without  being  at  all 
imitative,  was  pitched  in  the  very  highest  key  of 
self-reliance.  In  his  letter  to  Emerson,  printed 
in  the  second  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  speak 
ing  of  "  Individuality,  that  new  moral  American 
continent,"  Whitman  had  averred  :  "  Those  shores 
you  found  ;  I  say,  you  led  the  States  there,  — 
have  led  me  there."  And  it  seemed  hardly  possi 
ble  that  the  first  determined  attempt  to  cast  into 
literature  a  complete  man,  with  all  his  pride  and 
passions,  should  have  been  made  by  one  whose 
feet  were  not  already  firmly  planted  on  "those 
shores."  Then  there  was  the  significant  fact  of 
his  having  mailed  a  copy  of  his  first  edition  to 
Emerson. 

Whitman  talked  frankly  on  the  subject,  that 
day  on  Prospect  Hill,  and  told  how  he  became 
acquainted  with  Emerson's  writings.  He  was  at 
work  as  a  carpenter  (his  father's  trade  before  him) 
in  Brooklyn,  building  with  his  own  hands  and  on 


366  MY  OWN   STORY 

his  own  account  small  and  very  plain  houses  for 
laboring  men ;  as  soon  as  one  was  finished  and 
sold,  beginning  another,  — houses  of  two  or  three 
rooms.  This  was  in  1854;  he  was  then  thirty- 
five  years  old.  He  lived  at  home  with  his  mother ; 
going  off  to  his  work  in  the  morning  and  return 
ing  at  night,  carrying  his  dinner  pail  like  any  com 
mon  laborer.  Along  with  his  pail  he  usually 
carried  a  book,  between  which  and  his  solitary 
meal  he  would  divide  his  nooning.  Once  the 
book  chanced  to  be  a  volume  of  Emerson ;  and 
from  that  time  he  took  with  him  no  other  writer. 
His  half-formed  purpose,  his  vague  aspirations, 
all  that  had  lain  smouldering  so  long  within  him, 
waiting  to  be  fired,  rushed  into  flame  at  the  touch 
of  those  electric  words,  —  the  words  that  burn  in 
the  prose-poem  Nature,  and  in  the  essays  on 
Spiritual  Laws,  The  Over- Soul,  Self-Reliance. 
The  sturdy  carpenter  in  his  working-day  garb, 
seated  on  his  pile  of  boards ;  a  poet  in  that  rude 
disguise,  as  yet  but  dimly  conscious  of  his  powers  ; 
in  one  hand  the  sandwich  put  up  for  him  by  his 
good  mother,  his  other  hand  holding  open  the 
volume  that  revealed  to  him  his  greatness  and 
his  destiny,  —  this  is  the  picture  which  his  simple 
narrative  called  up,  that  Sunday  so  long  ago,  and 
which  has  never  faded  from  my  memory. 

He  freely  admitted  that  he  could  never  have 


WALT  WHITMAN  367 

written  his  poems  if  he  had  not  first  "come  to 
himself,"  and  that  Emerson  helped  him  to  "find 
himself."  I  asked  him  if  he  thought  he  would 
have  come  to  himself  without  that  help.  He 
said,  "  Yes,  but  it  would  have  taken  longer." 
And  he  used  this  characteristic  expression  :  "  I 
was  simmering,  simmering,  simmering ;  Emerson 
brought  me  to  a  boil." 

It  was  in  that  summer  of  1854,  while  he  was 
still  at  work  upon  his  houses,  that  he  began  the 
Leaves  of  Grass,  which  he  wrote,  rewrote,  and 
re-rewrote  (to  quote  again  his  own  words),  and 
afterward  set  in  type  with  his  own  hand. 

I  make  this  statement  thus  explicit  because  a 
question  of  profound  personal  and  literary  inter 
est  is  involved,  and  because  it  is  claimed  by  some 
of  the  later  friends  of  Whitman  that  he  wrote  his 
first  Leaves  of  Grass  before  he  had  read  Emerson. 
When  they  urge  his  own  authority  for  their  con 
tention,  I  can  only  reply  that  he  told  me  distinctly 
the  contrary,  when  his  memory  was  fresher. 

The  Emersonian  influence  is  often  clearly 
traceable  in  Whitman's  early  poems  ;  seldom  in 
the  later.  It  is  in  the  first  line  of  the  very  first 
poem  in  which  he  struck  the  keynote  of  his  defi 
ant  chant :  "  I  celebrate  myself."  And  at  times 
Emerson's  identical  thought  reappears  with  slight 
change  in  the  Leaves.  Two  or  three  instances 


368  MY   OWN   STORY 

out  of  many  will  suffice.  Emerson  wrote  :  "  Sup 
pose  you  should  contradict  yourself,  what  then  ? 
With  consistency  a  great  soul  has  simply  nothing 
to  do."  Whitman  says  :  — 

"  Do  I  contradict  myself  ? 
Very  well,  then,  I  contradict  myself, 
I  am  large,  I  contain  multitudes." 

Emerson  :  "  Shall  I  skulk  and  dodge  and  duck, 
with  my  unreasonable  apologies  ? "  Whitman  :  — 

"  I  see  that  the  elementary  laws  never  apologize,  .  .  . 
We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough." 

Emerson :  "  The  unstable  estimates  of  men 
crowd  to  him  whose  mind  is  filled  with  a  truth 
as  the  heaped  waves  of  the  Atlantic  follow  the 
moon."  Whitman :  — 

"  Surely  whoever  speaks  to  me  in  the  right  voice,  him  or  her  I 

shall  follow, 

As  the  waters  follow  the  moon,  silently,  with  fluid  steps,  any 
where  around  the  globe." 

Yet  the  form  Whitman  chose  for  his  message 
was  as  independent  of  Emerson's  as  of  all  other 
literary  forms  whatsoever.  Outwardly,  his  un- 
rhymed  and  unmeasured  lines  resemble  those  of 
Tupper's  Proverbial  Philosophy ;  but  in  no  other 
way  are  they  akin  to  those  colorless  platitudes. 
To  the  music  of  the  opera,  for  which  he  had  a 
passion,  more  than  to  anything  else,  was  due  his 


WALT  WHITMAN  369 

emancipation  from  what  he  called  the  "ballad- 
style  "  of  poetry,  by  which  he  meant  poetry  ham 
pered  by  rhyme  and  metre.  "  But  for  the  opera," 
he  declared,  that  day  on  Prospect  Hill,  "  I  could 
never  have  written  Leaves  of  Grass." 

Whitman  was  at  that  time  a  man  of  striking 
personal  appearance,  as  indeed  he  always  was : 
fully  six  feet  tall,  and  large  proportionally ;  slow 
of  movement,  and  inclined  to  walk  with  a  loun 
ging  gait,  which  somebody  has  likened  to  an  "  ele 
phantine  roll."  He  wore  his  shirt  collar  open  at 
the  throat,  exposing  his  hairy  chest,  in  decidedly 
unconventional  fashion.  His  necktie  was  drawn 
into  a  loose  knot,  or  hung  free,  with  serpentine 
ends  coiled  away  somewhere  in  his  clothing.  He 
was  scrupulously  neat  in  person,  —  "  never  dressed 
in  black,  always  dressed  freely  and  clean  in  strong 
clothes,"  according  to  his  own  description  of  him 
self  ;  head  massive,  complexion  florid-tawny,  fore 
head  seamed  with  wrinkles,  which,  along  with  his 
premature  grayness,  made  him  look  much  older 
than  he  was.  Mr.  Howells,  in  his  First  Impres 
sions  of  Literary  New  York,  describes  a  meeting 
with  him  a  few  months  later,  that  same  year 
(1860),  and  calls  him  "the  benign  old  man." 
Whitman  was  at  that  time  forty-one. 

I  did  not  see  him  again  for  three  years  and  a 
half  ;  meanwhile  the  Civil  War  was  raging,  and 


370  MY  OWN   STORY 

in  1862  he  went  to  the  front  to  nurse  his  brother, 
Lieutenant-Colonel  George  W.  Whitman,  who  had 
been  wounded  at  Fredericksburg.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  his  hospital  work,  which  became  so 
important  an  episode  in  his  life. 

IV 

In  the  latter  part  of  November,  1863,  a  fortu 
nate  circumstance  placed  me  in  friendly  relations 
with  Hon.  Salmon  P.  Chase,  and  I  became  a  guest 
in  his  Washington  home.  He  was  then  at  the 
summit  of  his  fame  and  power  as  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury,  in  which  office  his  eminent  ability,  his 
integrity  of  character,  and  his  immense  popularity 
as  the  father  of  the  "  greenbacks  "  and  the  suc 
cessful  manager  of  the  Nation's  finances  in  the 
crisis  of  its  greatest  peril,  had  made  him,  next  to 
President  Lincoln,  the  most  important  personage 
in  the  government. 

In  person,  the  Secretary  was  a  grand  specimen 
of  massively  compact  manhood,  perfectly  erect, 
over  six  feet  tall  (six  feet  one,  I  think  he  told 
me)  ;  always  decorously  dressed,  his  imposing 
figure  commonly  set  off  by  a  well-fitting  frock 
coat ;  features  full  and  strong,  complexion  light, 
face  smooth-shaven,  and  eyes  light  and  beaming, 
with  that  peculiar  fullness  of  the  eyeball  that 
denotes  near-sightedness.  He  was  august  in  the 


HON.    SALMON    P.    CHASE 


SECRETARY  CHASE  371 

true  sense,  sometimes  austere ;  and  I  can  under 
stand  why  some  who  did  not  know  him  under 
favorable  conditions  should  have  thought  him 
cold-hearted.  He  was  surprisingly  unreserved 
in  his  expressions  of  opinion  regarding  public 
measures  and  public  men,  not  even  sparing  the 
President.  His  frankness  of  speech  was  habitual, 
and  undoubtedly  gained  him  some  enemies.  I 
remember  two  of  his  political  friends  coming  in, 
one  evening,  to  present  to  him  a  young  man  who 
had  made  himself  the  hero  of  the  hour  by  writ 
ing  a  partisan  article  of  a  particularly  slashing 
character.  The  Secretary  received  him  kindly, 
but  instead  of  praising  his  performance,  said  of  it 
simply  —  "I  thought  it  very  indiscreet,"  —  with 
a  smile  like  a  flower  above  a  thorn.  The  thorn 
pierced,  nevertheless,  and  I  noticed  that  the 
young  man  went  away  with  a  diminished  admira 
tion  of  the  Secretary. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  during  my  stay,  — 
at  his  own  table,  where  there  were  often  noted 
guests,  in  his  private  office,  and  at  the  Treasury 
Department ;  and  I  was  frequently  his  companion 
in  before-breakfast  walks.  He  was  not  distin 
guished  for  wit,  but  his  conversation,  always  enter 
taining,  was  often  embroidered  with  a  playfulness 
which  the  background  of  his  stately  presence  set 
off.  At  the  breakfast  table  one  morning  he  read 


372  MY  OWN   STORY 

aloud,  with  an  amusement  we  all  shared,  a  ridicu 
lous  newspaper  account  of  his  being  locked  in  his 
office  with  his  report,  which  he  was  then  writing, 
and  inaccessible  even  to  President  Lincoln. 

I  said,  "  They  should  add  that  when  you  go  to 
walk  you  have  a  guard." 

He  glanced  at  my  slender  goatee  and  quoted,  — 

"  '  A  whiskered  pandour  and  a  fierce  hussar.'  " 

He  strongly  disapproved  of  the  President's 
habit  of  telling  all  sorts  of  stories,  to  all  sorts  of 
people,  on  all  sorts  of  occasions  ;  yet  he  himself 
sometimes  repeated  a  Lincoln  story  with  good 
effect.  One  evening  (my  note-book  says  Dec.  i)  he 
came  in  to  dinner  after  attending  a  cabinet  meet 
ing  at  which  the  President  submitted  to  his  heads 
of  departments  the  draft  of  his  message  to  Con 
gress,  and  having  read  it,  invited  their  comments. 
For  some  time  —  he  said  in  relating  the  incident 
—  nobody  spoke.  Then  he  broke  the  awkward 
silence  by  suggesting  an  amendment ;  whereupon 
Seward  proposed  another. 

"  Governor,"  said  Lincoln,  turning  to  his  Sec 
retary  of  State,  "  you  remind  me  of  a  Blue  Grass 
farmer  who  had  a  black  man  and  a  fine  yoke  of 
oxen.  One  day  the  black  man  came  running  to 
the  house  ; ' —  '  Massa',  says  he,  '  dat  ar  off  ox, 
him  dead.  T'udder  too.  T'ought  I  would  n't  tell 


CHASE  AND   O'CONNOR  373 

you   bofe  tub    oncet,   fear  you    could  n't   stand 
'em  !  '  " 

Among  the  noted  guests  I  remember  meeting 
at  the  Chase  house  that  season  were  Senator 
Sherman,  Speaker  Colfax,  Beecher,  Greeley,  and 
General  Garfield,  a  frequent  and  familiar  visitor. 
It  was  during  my  stay  that  the  Secretary's  ac 
complished  daughter,  Kate  Chase  Sprague,  of 
whom  he  was  exceedingly  fond  and  proud,  and 
her  millionaire  bridegroom,  the  youthful  Senator 
from  Rhode  Island,  returned  from  the  famous 
wedding  tour  that  followed  their  recent  brilliant 
but  ill-starred  marriage,  and  took  up  their  abode 
beneath  the  paternal  roof. 


I  had  at  that  time  few  acquaintances  in  Wash 
ington.  One  of  the  most  prized  of  these  was 
William  Douglas  O'Connor.  He  had  turned  aside 
from  literature,  in  which  we  who  knew  him  in  the 
flower  of  his  youthful  promise  had  believed  him 
destined  to  excel,  and  entered  a  department  of  the 
government,  —  one  of  those  vast  mausoleums  in 
which  so  many  talents,  small  and  great,  have  been 
buried,  and  brave  ambitions  have  turned  quietly 
to  dust.  Chase  had  himself,  in  his  younger  days, 
sought  a  humble  position  in  the  Treasury ;  and  it 
is  quite  possible  that,  had  he  obtained  it,  nothing 


374  MY  OWN   STORY 

would  ever  have  turned  him  out  of  that  tomb,  ex 
cept  the  necessity  of  making  room  for  some  other 
incumbent,  under  the  hoary  old  spoils  system,  to 
which,  with  all  its  evils,  we  must  also  accredit  the 
good  sometimes  resulting  from  such  enforced  lib 
erations.  In  the  day  of  his  greatness  the  Sec 
retary  was  not  averse  to  being  reminded  of  this 
possibility,  smiling  sternly  once,  as  I  recall,  when 
a  younger  person  at  his  table  pictured  him  as  a 
clerk  grown  gray  in  the  service,  meekly  receiving 
his  orders,  —  "  Chase,  do  this  ! "  "  Chase,  attend  to 
that !  "  —  in  the  department  where,  having  reached 
it  by  other  routes,  and  by  the  steps  of  statesman 
ship,  he  was  then  autocrat. 

O'Connor's  first  employment  was  in  the  Trea 
sury  ;  in  the  Treasury,  also,  when  I  first  knew  him, 
was  that  other  valiant  friend  of  Whitman's,  John 
Burroughs,  who,  fortunately  for  himself  and  his 
readers,  escaped  O'Connor's  fate.  When  O'Con 
nor  left  the  Treasury  it  was  to  enter  the  Light 
house  Board,  where  he  became  head  clerk,  and 
sat  like  a  spider  in  the  midst  of  his  web,  a  coast 
light  at  the  end  of  each  invisible  line,  hundreds  or 
thousands  of  miles  away.  In  those  useful  radia 
tions  the  beams  of  his  genius  became  too  deeply 
immersed  to  shine  otherwise  than  fitfully  in  what  I 
always  deemed  his  proper  sphere.  Except  to  take 
up  now  and  then  the  championship  of  some  cause 


WHITMAN  AND   O'CONNOR  375 

that  appealed  to  his  chivalrous  nature,  like  that  of 
Delia  Bacon's  Shakespearean  heresy,  or  Elizabeth 
Akers'  authorship  of  Rock  me  to  Sleep,  or  Whit 
man  and  his  Leaves  of  Grass,  at  a  time  when  the 
man  and  his  book  were  in  the  lowest  depths  of 
that  opprobrium  from  which  they  were  so  slow  to 
emerge,  —  but  for  occasional  efforts  of  this  sort, 
the  most  eloquent  of  pens  became  subdued  to  the 
daily  routine  of  office  drudgery.  He  was  not 
learned,  in  an  academic  sense,  but  he  was  a  rapid 
and  omnivorous  reader,  with  an  astonishing  mem 
ory,  which  when  he  wrote  became  an  illumined 
arsenal  of  literary  allusion.  It  seemed  as  if  such 
weapons  of  language  and  rhetoric  as  he  possessed 
should  have  made  him  our  foremost  knight  of  let 
ters,  an  American  Hugo.  Perhaps  he  was  con 
scious  of  some  defect  of  temperament  that  unfitted 
him  for  such  a  career.  A  certain  heat  and  fury 
seemed  necessary  to  move  his  mind  to  creative 
activity.  There  was  in  everything  he  wrote  a 
tendency  to  excess,  which  marred  his  remarkable 
novel,  Harrington,  and  in  his  polemic  papers  be 
trayed  him  into  extravagances  of  over-statement. 
He  and  Burroughs  were  the  two  earliest  and 
ablest  champions  of  Walt  Whitman's  work ;  but 
their  writings  on  that  theme  presented  the  widest 
possible  contrast :  Burroughs's  Walt  Whitman  as 
Poet  and  Person  being  calm,  unhurried,  candid, 


376  MY  OWN   STORY 

judicial ;  The  Good  Gray  Poet  of  O'Connor,  all 
aflame  with  wit  and  scorn  and  passionate  elo 
quence. 

O'Connor  was  then  in  the  prime  of  his  powers, 
strikingly  handsome,  with  a  winning  graciousness 
of  manner  that  gave  to  his  gay  volubility  an  in 
describable  charm.  I  knew  of  his  intimacy  with 
Whitman,  and  when  one  day  I  found  him  at  his 
office,  and  had  answered  his  many  questions,  tell 
ing  him  where  I  was  domiciled,  one  of  the  first  I 
asked  in  return  was,  "Where's  Walt?" — the 
familiar  name  by  which  Whitman  was  known  to 
his  friends. 

"What  a  chance  !  "  said  O'Connor,  in  his  ardent 
way.  "  Walt  is  here  in  Washington,  living  close 
by  you,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Secretary's 
door.  Come  to  my  house  on  Sunday  evening,  and 
I  will  have  him  there  to  meet  you." 

VI 

On  seeing  him  again  at  O'Connor's,  I  found 
Whitman  but  little  changed,  except  that  he  was 
more  trimly  attired,  wearing  a  loosely  fitting  but 
quite  elegant  suit  of  black,  —  yes,  black  at  last ! 
He  was  in  the  best  of  spirits ;  and  I  remember 
with  what  a  superb  and  joyous  pace  he  swung 
along  the  street,  between  O'Connor  and  me,  as 
we  walked  home  with  him,  after  ten  o'clock. 


WHITMAN   AND   O'CONNOR  377 

Diagonally  opposite  to  Chase's  great  house,  on 
the  corner  of  E  and  6th  streets,  stood  one  of  those 
old  wooden  buildings  which  then  and  for  some 
years  afterwards  lingered  among  the  new  and 
handsome  blocks  rising  around  them,  and  made 
the  "city  of  magnificent  distances  "  also  a  city  of 
astonishing  architectural  contrasts.  In  the  fine, 
large  mansion,  sumptuously  furnished,  cared  for 
by  sleek  and  silent  colored  servants,  and  thronged 
by  distinguished  guests,  dwelt  the  great  states 
man  ;  in  the  old  tenement  opposite,  in  a  bare  and 
desolate  back  room,  up  three  flights  of  stairs,  quite 
alone,  lived  the  poet.  Walt  led  the  way  up  those 
dreary  stairs,  partly  in  darkness,  found  the  key 
hole  of  a  door  which  he  unlocked  and  opened, 
scratched  a  match,  and  welcomed  us  to  his  garret. 

Garret  it  literally  was,  containing  hardly  any 
more  furniture  than  a  bed,  a  cheap  pine  table,  and 
a  little  sheet-iron  stove  in  which  there  was  no  fire. 
A  window  was  open,  and  it  was  a  December  night. 
But  Walt,  clearing  a  chair  or  two  of  their  litter  of 
newspapers,  invited  us  to  sit  down  and  stop  awhile, 
with  as  simple  and  sweet  hospitality  as  if  he  had 
been  offering  us  the  luxuries  of  the  great  mansion 
across  the  square. 

Sit  down  we  did  (O'Connor  on  the  bed,  as  I 
remember),  and  "  drank  delight  of  battle  "  over 
books,  the  principal  subjects  being  Shakespeare 


378  MY  OWN   STORY 

and  Walt's  own  Leaves  of  Grass.  Over  Shakes 
peare  it  was  a  sort  of  triangular  combat,  —  O'Con 
nor  maintaining  the  Baconian  theory  of  the 
authorship  of  the  plays,  and  Walt  joining  with  me 
in  attacking  that  chimera.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
agreed  with  O'Connor  in  his  estimate  of  Lear  and 
Hamlet  and  Othello,  which  Walt  belittled,  prefer 
ring  the  historical  plays,  and  placing  Richard  II. 
foremost;  although  he  thought  all  the  plays  prepos 
terously  overrated.  Of  his  own  poems  ("  pomes  " 
he  called  them)  he  spoke  modestly,  listening  with 
interest  to  frank  criticisms  of  them  (which  he 
always  had  from  me),  and  disclaiming  the  pro 
found  hidden  meanings  O'Connor  was  inclined  to 
read  into  some  of  them.  Ordinarily  inert  and  slow 
of  speech,  on  occasions  like  this  his  large  and  gen 
erous  nature  became  suffused  with  a  magnificent 
glow,  which  gave  one  some  idea  of  the  heat  and 
momentum  that  went  to  the  making  of  his  truly 
great  poems  ;  just  as  his  sluggish  moods  seemed 
to  account  for  so  much  of  his  labored,  unleavened 
work. 

O'Connor  was  a  man  of  unfailing  eloquence, 
whom  it  was  always  delightful  to  listen  to,  even 
when  the  rush  of  his  enthusiasm  carried  him  be 
yond  the  bounds  of  discretion,  as  it  did  in  the 
Bacon-Shakespeare  business.  Whitman's  reason 
ing  powers  were  not  remarkable ;  he  did  not  im- 


WILLIAM    D.    O'CONNOR 


WALT  WHITMAN  379 

press  me,  then  or  at  any  time,  as  a  great  intellect ; 
but  he  was  original,  intuitive,  a  seer,  and  his  im 
mense  and  genial  personality  gave  an  interest  to 
everything  he  said.  In  my  enjoyment  of  such 
high  discourse,  I  forgot  the  cheerless  garret,  the 
stove  in  which  there  was  no  fire,  the  window  that 
remained  open  (Walt  was  a  "  fresh-air  fiend  "),  and 
my  own  freezing  feet  (we  all  kept  on  our  over 
coats).  I  also  forgot  that  I  was  a  guest  at  the 
great  house  across  the  quadrangle,  and  that  I  was 
unprovided  with  a  latch  key,  —  a  fact  of  which  I 
was  reminded  with  rather  startling  unpleasantness, 
when  I  left  O'Connor  at  the  foot  of  Walt's  stairs, 
hurried  to  the  Secretary's  door,  I  know  not  how 
long  after  midnight,  and  found  myself  locked  out. 
All  was  still  and  dark  within,  except  that  I  could 
see  a  light  left  burning  low  for  me  in  my  own 
chamber,  a  tantalizing  reminder  of  the  comfort  I 
had  exchanged  for  the  bleak,  deserted  streets. 
My  embarrassment  was  relieved  when  I  reflected 
that  in  those  wild  war  times  the  Secretary  was 
prepared  to  receive  dispatches  at  any  hour  of  the 
night.  I  rang  boldly,  as  if  I  had  been  a  messen 
ger  bearing  tidings  of  a  nation's  fate.  The  vesti 
bule  gas  was  quickly  turned  up,  and  a  sleepy- 
looking  colored  boy  let  me  in. 


380  MY   OWN   STORY 

VII 

Two  mornings  after  this  I  went  by  appointment 
to  call  on  Whitman  in  his  garret.  "  Don't  come 
before  ten  o'clock,"  he  had  warned  me ;  and  it  was 
after  ten  when  I  mounted  his  three  flights  and 
knocked  at  the  door  of  his  room,  —  his  terrible 
room,  as  I  termed  it  in  notes  taken  at  the  time. 

I  found  him  partly  dressed,  and  preparing  his 
own  breakfast.  There  was  a  fire  in  the  sheet-iron 
stove,  —  the  open  door  showed  a  few  coals,  —  and 
he  was  cutting  slices  of  bread  from  a  baker's  loaf 
with  his  jackknife,  getting  them  ready  for  toasting. 
The  smallest  of  tin  teakettles  simmering  on  the 
stove,  a  bowl  and  spoon,  and  a  covered  tin  cup 
used  as  a  teapot  comprised,  with  the  aforesaid  use 
ful  jackknife,  his  entire  outfit  of  visible  housekeep 
ing  utensils.  His  sugar  bowl  was  a  brown  paper 
bag.  His  butter  plate  was  another  piece  of  brown 
paper,  the  same  coarse  wrapping  in  which  he  had 
brought  home  his  modest  lump  from  the  corner 
grocery.  His  cupboard  was  an  oblong  pine  box, 
set  up  a  few  feet  from  the  floor,  opening  outward, 
with  the  bottom  against  the  wall ;  the  two  sides, 
one  above  the  other,  made  very  good  shelves. 

I  toasted  his  bread  for  him  on  the  end  of  a 
sharpened  stick ;  he  buttered  the  slices  with  his 
jackknife,  and  poured  his  tea  at  a  corner  of  the 


WALT  WHITMAN  381 

table  cleared  for  that  purpose  of  its  litter  of  books 
and  newspapers ;  and  while  he  breakfasted  we 
talked. 

His  last  slice  buttered  and  eaten,  he  burned  his 
butter  plate  (showing  the  advantage  of  having  no 
dishes  to  wash),  and  set  his  bag  of  sugar  in  the 
cupboard,  along  with  his  small  parcel  of  tea ;  then 
he  brought  out  from  his  trunk  a  package  of  manu 
script  poems,  which  he  read  to  me,  and  which 
we  discussed,  for  the  next  hour. 

These  were  his  war  pieces,  the  Drum-Taps,  then 
nearly  ready  for  publication.  He  read  them  un 
affectedly,  with  force  and  feeling,  and  in  a  voice 
of  rich  but  not  resonant  tones.  I  was  interested 
not  alone  in  the  poems,  but  also  in  his  own  inter 
pretation  of  the  irregular  yet  often  not  unrhythmi 
cal  lines.  I  did  not  find  in  them  anything  compar 
able  with  the  greatly  moving  passages  in  the  earlier 
Leaves  :  they  were  more  literary  in  their  tone, 
showing  here  and  there  lapses  into  the  conven 
tional  poetic  diction,  which  he  had  flung  off  so 
haughtily  in  the  surge  of  the  early  impulse.  They 
contained,  however,  some  fine,  effective,  patriotic, 
and  pathetic  chants ;  and  were,  moreover,  entirely 
free  from  the  old  offenses  against  propriety.  I 
hoped  to  be  able  to  persuade  some  good  Boston 
house  to  publish  the  volume,  but  found,  when  I 
came  to  make  the  attempt,  that  no  firm  would 


382  MY  OWN   STORY 

undertake  it ;  and  it  remained  in  manuscript  until 
1865,  when  Whitman  issued  it  at  his  own  expense.1 

From  that  morning  I  saw  him  almost  every  day 
or  evening  as  long  as  I  remained  in  Washington. 
He  was  then  engaged  in  his  missionary  work,  in 
the  hospitals ;  talking  to  the  sick  and  wounded 
soldiers,  reading  to  them,  writing  letters  for  them, 
cheering  and  comforting  them  sometimes  by 
merely  sitting  silent  beside  their  cots,  and  per 
haps  soothing  a  pallid  brow  with  his  sympathetic 
hand. 

He  took  me  two  or  three  times  to  the  great 
Armory  Square  Hospital,  where  I  observed  his 
methods  of  work.  I  was  surprised  to  learn  that 
he  never  read  to  the  patients  any  of  his  own  com 
positions,  and  that  not  one  of  those  I  talked  with 
knew  him  for  a  poet,  or  for  anybody  but  plain 
"  Mr.  Whitman."  I  cannot  help  speaking  of  one 
poor  fellow,  who  had  asked  to  see  me  because 
Whitman  had  told  him  I  was  the  author  of  one 
of  the  pieces  he  liked  to  hear  read,  and  who 
talked  to  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes  of  the  comfort 
Whitman's  visits  had  given  him.  The  pathos  of 
the  situation  was  impressed  upon  me  by  the  cir- 

1  Some  time  afterwards  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  engaging  a 
Boston  bookseller  to  permit  his  imprint  to  be  placed  upon  the 
title-page  of  Whitman's  Democratic  Vistas,  which  was,  however, 
like  the  Drum-Taps,  published  at  the  author's  expense. 


WHITMAN  AND  CHASE  383 

cumstance  that  his  foot  was  to  be  amputated 
within  an  hour. 

Whitman  always  carried  into  the  wards  a  few 
fruits  and  delicacies,  which  he  distributed  with 
the  approval  of  the  surgeons  and  nurses.  He 
also  circulated,  among  those  who  were  well  enough 
to  read,  books  and  periodicals  sent  to  him  for  that 
purpose  by  friends  in  the  North.  Sometimes  he 
gave  paper  and  envelopes  and  postage  stamps, 
and  he  was  never  without  some  good  tobacco,  to 
be  dispensed  in  special  cases.  He  never  used 
tobacco  himself,  but  he  had  compassion  for  those 
who  had  been  deprived  of  that  solace,  as  he  had 
for  all  forms  of  suffering.  He  wrote  Washington 
letters  that  winter  for  the  New  York  Times,  the 
income  from  which,  together  with  contributions 
from  Northern  friends,  enabled  him  to  carry  on  his 
hospital  work. 

VIII 

Whitman  and  Chase  were  the  two  men  I  saw 
most  of,  at  that  time,  in  Washington.  That  I  should 
know  them  both  familiarly,  passing  often  from 
the  stately  residence  of  the  one  to  the  humble 
lodging  of  the  other,  seemed  to  me  a  simple  and 
natural  thing  at  the  time :  great  men  both,  each 
nobly  proportioned  in  body  and  stalwart  in  charac 
ter,  and  each  invincibly  true  to  his  own  ideals  and 
purposes  :  near  neighbors,  and  yet  very  antipodes 


384  MY  OWN   STORY 

in  their  widely  contrasted  lives,  —  one  princely  in 
his  position,  dispensing  an  enormous  patronage, 
the  slenderest  rill  of  which  would  have  made  life 
green  for  the  other,  struggling  along  the  arid 
ways  of  an  honorable  poverty.  Both  greatly  am 
bitious  :  Chase  devoutly  believing  it  his  right,  and 
likewise  his  destiny,  to  succeed  Lincoln  in  the 
presidency ;  Whitman  aspiring  to  be  for  all  time 
the  poet  of  democracy  and  emancipated  manhood, 
—  his  simple  prayer  being,  "  Give  me  to  speak 
beautiful  words  ;  take  all  the  rest ! "  One  a  con 
scientious  High  Churchman,  reverencing  tradition, 
and  finding  ceremonious  worship  so  helpful  and 
solacing  that  (as  he  once  said  to  me  earnestly)  he 
would  have  become  a  Roman  Catholic,  if  he  could 
have  brought  himself  to  accept  the  Romish  dog 
mas  ;  the  other  believing  in  the  immanent  spirit 
and  an  ever-living  inspiration,  and  as  free  from  all 
forms  and  doctrines  as  Abraham  alone  with  Deity 
in  the  desert.  For  the  statesman  I  had  a  very 
great  admiration  and  respect ;  for  the  poet  I  felt 
a  powerful  attraction,  something  like  a  younger 
brother's  love ;  and  I  confess  a  sweet  and  secret 
joy  in  sometimes  stealing  away  from  the  company 
of  polished  and  eminent  people  in  the  great  house, 
and  crossing  over  to  Walt  in  his  garret,  or  going 
to  meet  him  at  O'Connor's. 

I  thought  no  man  more  than  Whitman  merited 


WHITMAN   AND   CHASE  385 

recognition  and  assistance  from  the  government, 
and  I  once  asked  him  if  he  would  accept  a  position 
in  one  of  the  departments.  He  answered  frankly 
that  he  would.  But  he  believed  it  improbable 
that  he  could  get  an  appointment,  although  (as  he 
mentioned  casually)  he  had  letters  of  recommenda 
tion  from  Emerson. 

There  were  two  of  these,  and  they  were  espe 
cially  interesting  to  me,  as  I  knew  something  of 
the  disturbed  relations  existing  between  the  two 
men,  on  account  of  Whitman's  indiscreet  use  of 
Emerson's  famous  letter  to  him,  acknowledging 
the  gift  copy  of  the  first  Leaves  of  Grass.  Whit 
man  not  only  published  that  letter  without  the 
writer's  authority,  but  printed  an  extract  from  it, 
in  conspicuous  gold,  on  the  back  of  his  second 
edition,  —  "I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a 
great  career ; "  thus  making  Emerson  in  some 
sense  an  indorser  not  only  of  the  first  poems,  but 
of  others  he  had  never  seen,  and  which  he  would 
have  preferred  never  to  see  in  print.  This  was  an 
instance  of  bad  taste,  but  not  of  intentional  bad 
faith,  on  the  part  of  Whitman.  Talking  of  it 
once,  he  said,  in  his  grand  way  :  "  I  supposed 
the  letter  was  meant  to  be  blazoned ;  I  regarded 
it  as  the  chart  of  an  emperor."  But  Emerson  had 
no  thought  of  acting  the  imperial  part  toward  so 
adventurous  a  voyager.  I  remember  hearing  him 


386  MY    OWN   STORY 

allude  to  the  incident  shortly  after  that  second 
edition  appeared.  Speaking  of  the  attention  the 
new  poet  was  attracting,  he  mentioned  an  English 
man  who  had  come  to  this  country  bringing  a 
letter  to  Whitman  from  Monckton  Milnes  (after 
ward  Lord  Houghton).  "  But,"  said  Emerson, 
"  hearing  that  Whitman  had  not  used  me  well  in 
the  matter  of  letters,  he  did  not  deliver  it."  He 
had  afterwards  made  a  strenuous  effort  to  induce 
Whitman  to  omit  certain  objectionable  passages 
from  his  edition  of  1 860,  and  failed.  And  I  knew 
that  the  later  writings  of  Whitman  interested  him 
less  and  less.  "  No  more  evidence  of  getting  into 
form,"  he  once  remarked,  —  a  singular  comment, 
it  may  be  thought,  from  one  whose  own  chief 
defect  as  a  writer  seemed  to  be  an  imperfect 
mastery  of  form. 

With  these  things  in  mind,  I  read  eagerly  the 
two  letters  from  Emerson  recommending  Whit 
man  for  a  government  appointment.  One  was 
addressed  to  Senator  Sumner ;  the  other,  I  was 
surprised  and  pleased  to  find,  to  Secretary  Chase. 
I  had  but  a  slight  acquaintance  with  Sumner,  and 
the  letter  to  him  I  handed  back.  The  one  written 
to  Chase  I  wished  to  retain,  in  order  to  deliver  it  to 
the  Secretary  with  my  own  hands,  and  with  such 
furthering  words  as  I  could  summon  in  so  good 
a  cause.  Whitman  expressed  small  hope  in  the 


WHITMAN   AND   CHASE  387 

venture,  and  stipulated  that  in  case  of  the  failure 
he  anticipated,  I  should  bring  back  the  letter. 

As  we  left  the  breakfast  table,  the  next  morning, 
I  followed  the  Secretary  into  his  private  office, 
where,  after  some  pleasant  talk,  I  remarked  that  I 
was  about  to  overstep  a  rule  I  had  laid  down  for 
myself  on  entering  his  house.  He  said,  "  What 
rule  ? "  I  replied,  "  Never  to  repay  your  hospi 
tality  by  asking  of  you  any  official  favor."  He 
said  I  need  n't  have  thought  it  necessary  to  make 
that  rule,  for  he  was  always  glad  to  do  for  his 
friends  such  things  as  he  was  constantly  called 
upon  to  do  for  strangers.  Then  I  laid  before  him 
the  Whitman  business.  He  was  evidently  im 
pressed  by  Emerson's  letter,  and  he  listened  with 
interest  to  what  I  had  to  say  of  the  man  and  his 
patriotic  work.  But  he  was  troubled.  "  I  am 
placed,"  he  said,  "in  a  very  embarrassing  position. 
It  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  grant  this 
request,  out  of  my  regard  for  Mr.  Emerson ;  "  and 
he  was  gracious  enough  to  extend  the  courtesy  of 
this  "  regard  "  to  me,  also.  But  then  he  went  on 
to  speak  of  Leaves  of  Grass  as  a  book  that  had 
made  the  author  notorious  ;  and  I  found  that  he 
judged  it,  as  all  but  a  very  few  persons  then  did, 
not  independently,  on  its  own  merits,  but  by  con 
ventional  standards  of  taste  and  propriety.  He 
had  understood  that  the  writer  was  a  rowdy,  — 


388  MY   OWN   STORY 

"  one  of  the  roughs,"  —  according  to  his  descrip 
tions  of  himself. 

I  said,  "He  is  as  quiet  a  gentleman  in  his 
manners  and  conversation  as  any  guest  who 
enters  your  door." 

He  replied :  "  I  am  bound  to  believe  what  you 
say ;  but  his  writings  have  given  him  a  bad  repute, 
and  I  should  not  know  what  sort  of  a  place  to  give 
to  such  a  man,"  — with  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

I  respected  his  decision,  much  as  I  regretted  it ; 
and,  persuaded  that  nothing  I  could  urge  would  in 
duce  him  to  change  it,  I  said  I  would  relieve  him 
of  all  embarrassment  in  the  business  by  withdraw 
ing  the  letter.  He  glanced  again  at  the  signature, 
hesitated,  and  made  this  surprising  response,  — 

"  I  have  nothing  of  Emerson's  in  his  handwrit 
ing,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  keep  this." 

I  thought  it  hardly  fair,  but  as  the  letter  was 
addressed  to  him,  and  had  passed  into  his  hands, 
I  could  n't  well  reclaim  it  against  his  wishes. 

Whitman  seemed  really  to  have  formed  some 
hopes  of  the  success  of  my  mission,  after  I  had 
undertaken  it,  as  he  showed  when  I  went  to  give 
him  an  account  of  my  interview  with  the  Sec 
retary.  He  took  the  disappointment  philosophi 
cally,  but  indulged  in  some  sardonic  remarks  about 
Chase  and  his  department,  regarding  which  some 
choice  scandals  were  then  afloat.  "  He  is  right," 


WHITMAN   AND   CHASE  389 

he  said,  "  in  preserving  his  saints  from  contamina 
tion  by  a  man  like  me  !  "  But  I  stood  up  for  the 
Secretary,  as,  with  the  Secretary,  I  had  stood  up 
for  Whitman.  Those  very  scandals  had  no  doubt 
rendered  him  cautious  in  making  appointments. 
And  could  any  one  be  blamed  for  taking  the 
writer  of  Leaves  of  Grass  at  his  word  when,  in 
his  defiance  of  conventionality,  he  had  described 
himself  as  "rowdyish,"  "disorderly,"  and  worse  ? 
"  '  I  cock  my  hat  as  I  please,  indoors  and  out,' ': 
I  quoted.  Walt  laughed,  and  said,  "  I  don't  blame 
him  ;  it 's  about  what  I  expected."  He  asked  for 
the  letter,  and  showed  his  amused  disgust  when 
I  explained  how  it  had  been  pocketed  by  the  Sec 
retary.1 

1  A  brief  memorandum  of  this  interview,  which  Whitman  made 
in  his  diary,  with  characteristic  carelessness  in  the  formation  of 
sentences,  appears,  in  facsimile  of  his  handwriting,  in  a  book  by 
Thomas  Donaldson,  Walt  Whitman  the  Man.  The  book  I 
have  never  seen ;  but  a  friend  sends  me  a  printed  copy  of  the 
memorandum.  It  is  dated  Dec.  1 1,  and  is  as  follows  : 

"  This  forenoon  Mr.  Trowbridge  has  been  with  me,  —  he  had 
a  talk  yesterday  with  S.  P.  Chase,  the  secretary  of  the  treasury, 
about  me ;  presented  Emerson's  letter  to  Mr.  C.  —  he  said  some 
commonplaces  about  wishing  to  oblige  R.  W.  E.  &  Mr.  Trow 
bridge  ;  —  then  said  he  considered  Leaves  of  Grass  a  very  bad 
book,  &  he  did  not  know  how  he  could  possibly  bring  its  author 
into  the  government  service,  especially  if  he  put  him  in  contact 
with  gentlemen  employed  in  the  bureaus,  —  did  not  think  he 
would  be  warranted  in  doing  so, — he  considered  the  author  of 
Leaves  of  Grass  in  the  light  of  a  decidedly  disreputable  person. 


390  MY  OWN   STORY 

I  should  probably  have  had  no  difficulty  in 
securing  the  appointment  if  I  had  withheld  Em 
erson's  letter,  and  called  my  friend  simply  Mr. 
Whitman,  or  Mr.  Walter  Whitman,  without  men 
tioning  Leaves  of  Grass.  But  I  felt  that  the  Sec 
retary,  if  he  was  to  appoint  him,  should  know  just 
whom  he  was  appointing ;  and  Whitman  was  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  shirk  the  responsibility 
of  having  written  an  audacious  book. 

Whether  the  same  candor  was  used  in  procur 
ing  for  him  a  clerkship  in  the  Interior  Depart 
ment,  to  which  he  was  appointed  later,  I  do  not 
know.  He  had  been  for  some  time  performing 
the  duties  of  that  position,  without  exciting  any 
other  comment  than  that  he  performed  them  well, 
when  a  new  Secretary  (James  Harlan),  coming  in 
under  Johnson,  and  discovering  that  the  grave 
and  silent  man  at  a  certain  desk  was  the  author 
of  a  reprehensible  book,  dismissed  him  uncere 
moniously. 

IX 

It  was  this  incident  that  called  out  from  O'Con 
nor  his  brilliant  monograph,  The  Good  Gray  Poet, 
in  which  Whitman  was  so  eloquently  vindicated, 
and  the  Secretary  received  so  terrible  a  scourging. 

Mr.  T.  mentioned  to  him  my  employment  for  a  year  past  among 
the  wounded  and  sick  soldiers,  —  it  did  not  seem  to  make  any 
difference." 


WALT   WHITMAN 

A  t  the  age  of  55 


WALT  WHITMAN  391 

What  seemed  for  a  time  unmitigated  ill  fortune 
proved  to  be  a  very  good  thing  for  Whitman.  He 
was  soon  after  appointed  to  a  better  place  in  the 
office  of  the  Attorney-General,  and  he  himself 
used  to  say  that  it  was  O'Connor's  defense  that 
turned  the  tide  in  his  favor ;  meaning  the  tide  of 
criticism  and  public  opinion,  which  had  until  then 
set  so  tremendously  against  him.  O'Connor's 
pamphlet  was  followed,  two  years  later  (1867),  by 
John  Burroughs's  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and 
Person.  Countless  other  publications  on  the 
same  inexhaustible  theme  have  appeared  since,  — 
reviews,  biographies,  personal  recollections,  studies 
of  Walt  Whitman ;  a  recent  Study  by  Burroughs 
himself ;  volumes  of  eulogy  and  exegesis,  commen 
tary  and  controversy,  wise  and  foolish;  a  whole 
library  of  Whitman  literature,  in  English,  French, 
German,  and  other  languages.  There  are  Walt 
Whitman  Societies  and  Fellowships,  and  at  least 
one  periodical  is  devoted  largely  to  Whitmanana. 
I  saw  Whitman  many  times  in  Washington, 
after  that  memorable  season  of  1863;  again  when 
he  came  to  Boston  to  deliver  his  lecture  on  Lin 
coln  ;  and  lastly  in  his  Camden  home,  where  the 
feet  of  many  pilgrims  mounted  the  steps  that  led 
to  his  door,  and  where  an  infirm  but  serene  old 
age  closed  the  "  great  career  "  Emerson  had  been 
the  first  to  acclaim. 


392  MY  OWN   STORY 

All  this  time  I  have  watched  with  deep  interest 
the  growth  of  his  influence  and  the  change  in 
public  opinion  regarding  him.  To  me,  now  almost 
the  sole  survivor  among  his  earliest  friends  and 
adherents,  wonderful  indeed  seems  that  change 
since  the  first  thin  quarto  edition  of  the  Leaves 
appeared,  in  1855.  If  noticed  at  all  by  the  critics, 
it  was,  with  rare  exceptions,  to  be  ridiculed  and 
reviled  ;  and  Emerson  himself  suffered  abuse  for 
pronouncing  it  "the  most  extraordinary  piece  of 
wit  and  wisdom  America  had  yet  contributed." 
Even  so  accomplished  a  man  of  letters  as  James 
Russell  Lowell  saw  in  it  nothing  but  common 
place  tricked  out  with  eccentricity.  I  remember 
walking  with  him  once  in  Cambridge,  when  he 
pointed  out  a  doorway  sign,  "  Groceries,"  with  the 
letters  set  zigzag,  to  produce  a  bizarre  effect. 
"  That,"  said  he,  "  is  Walt  Whitman,  —  with  very 
common  goods  inside."  It  was  not  until  his 
writings  became  less  prophetical,  and  more  con 
sciously  literary  in  their  aim,  that  Lowell  and 
scholars  of  his  class  began  to  see  something 
besides  oddity  in  Whitman,  and  his  popularity 

widened. 

X 

That  such  a  change  took  place  in  his  writings 
Whitman  himself  was  aware.  Once  when  I  con 
fessed  to  him  that  nothing  in  the  later  poems 


WALT   WHITMAN  393 

moved  me  like  some  of  the  great  passages  in  the 
earlier  editions,  he  replied  :  "  I  am  not  surprised. 
I  do  not  suppose  I  shall  ever  again  have  the  affla 
tus  I  had  in  writing  the  first  Leaves  of  Grass." 
One  evening  he  was  reading  to  O'Connor  and  me 
some  manuscript  pieces,  inviting  our  comments, 
when  he  came  to  the  line,  — 

"  No  poem  proud  I,  chanting,  bring  to  thee." 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  poem  proud  '  ? "  I  asked. 
"You  never  would  have  said  that  in  the  first 
Leaves  of  Grass." 

"  What  would  I  have  said  ? "  he  inquired. 

"  '  I  bring  to  you  no  proud  poem,'  "  I  replied. 

O'Connor  cried  out,  in  his  vehement  way, 
"That 's  so,  Walt,  —  that 's  so  !  " 

"  I  think  you  are  right,"  Walt  admitted,  and  he 
read  over  the  line,  which  I  looked  to  see  changed 
when  the  poem  came  to  be  printed  ;  but  it  ap 
peared  without  alteration.  It  occurs  in  Lo,  Vic 
tress  on  the  Peaks,  an  address  to  Liberty,  for  which 
word  he  uses  the  Spanish  "  Libertad  "  — another 
thing  with  which  I  found  fault,  and  which  I  hoped 
to  see  changed.  I  will  say  here  that  I  do  not  be 
lieve  Whitman  ever  changed  a  line  or  a  word  to 
please  anybody.  In  answer  to  criticism,  he  would 
at  times  maintain  his  point ;  at  others,  he  would 
answer,  in  his  tolerant,  candid  way,  "  I  guess  you 


394  MY  OWN   STORY 

are  right,"  or,  "  I  rather  think  it  is  so  ;"  but  even 
when  apparently  convinced,  he  would  stand  by  his 
faults.  His  use  of  words  and  phrases  from  for 
eign  languages,  which  he  began  in  his  1856  edi 
tion,  and  which  became  a  positive  offense  in  that 
of  1860,  he  continued  in  the  face  of  all  remon 
strance,  and  would  not  even  correct  errors  into 
which  his  ignorance  of  those  languages  had  be 
trayed  him.  In  one  of  his  most  ambitious  poems, 
Chanting  the  Square  Deific,  he  translates  our  good 
English  "  Holy  Spirit "  into  "  Santa  Spirita," 
meant  for  Italian  ;  but  in  that  language  the  word 
for  "  spirit  "  is  masculine,  and  the  form  should 
have  been  "  Spirito  Santo,"  with  the  adjective  cor 
respondingly  masculine.  William  Rossetti,  who 
edited  a  volume  of  selections  from  Leaves  of 
Grass  for  the  British  public,  pointed  this  out  in 
a  letter  to  Whitman,  who,  in  talking  of  it  with 
me,  acknowledged  the  blunder ;  yet  through  some 
perversity  he  allowed  it  to  pass  on  into  subsequent 
editions. 

In  these  editions  Whitman  showed  that  he  was 
not  averse  to  making  changes ;  he  was  always  re 
arranging  the  contents,  mixing  up  the  early  with 
the  later  poems,  and  altering  titles,  to  the  confu 
sion  of  the  faithful.  Now  and  then  he  would  in 
terject  into  some  familiar  passage  of  the  old  pieces 
a  phrase  or  a  line  in  his  later  manner,  strangely 


WALT   WHITMAN  395 

discordant  to  an  ear  of  any  discrimination.  A  good 
example  is  this,  where  to  the  original  lines,  — 

"  My  rendezvous  is  appointed,  it  is  certain, 

The  Lord  will  be  there,  and  wait  till  I  come,  on  perfect  terms,"  — 

he  adds  this  third  line,  — 

"  The  great  Camerado,  the  lover  true  for  whom  I  pine,  will  be 
there,"  — 

a  tawdry  patch  on  the  strong  original  homespun. 
The  French  "  rendezvous  "  in  the  first  line  is  legit 
imate,  having  been  adopted  into  our  language 
because  it  expresses  something  for  which  we  have 
no  other  single  word,  and  Whitman  would  be  a 
benefactor  had  he  enriched  our  vernacular  in  that 
way.  But  "  camerado  "  —  of  which  he  seems  to 
have  become  very  fond,  using  it  wherever  he  had 
a  chance  —  is  neither  French  (camarade)  nor 
Spanish  (camarada),  nor  Portuguese,  nor  Italian, 
nor  anything  else,  to  my  mind,  but  a  malformed 
substitute  for  our  good  and  sufficient  word  "  com 
rade."  "  Lover  true,"  like  "poem  proud,"  is  of  a 
piece  with  those  "  stock  poetical  touches  "  which 
he  used  to  say  he  had  great  trouble  in  leaving 
out  of  his  first  Leaves,  but  which  here,  as  in  other 
places,  he  went  back  and  deliberately  wrote  into 
them. 

For  another  set  of  changes  to  which  I  objected 
he  was  able  to  give  a  reason,  though  a  poor  one. 


396  MY   OWN    STORY 

In  the  Poem  of  Faces,  "  the  old  face  of  the  mother 
of  many  children  "  has  this  beautiful  setting  :  — 

"  Lulled  and  late  is  the  smoke  of  the  Sabbath  morning, 
It  hangs  low  over  the  rows  of  trees  by  the  fences, 
It  hangs  thin  by  the  sassafras,  the  wild  cherry,  and  the  cat-brier 
under  them." 

"  Smoke  of  the  Sabbath  morning "  he  altered, 
after  the  first  two  editions,  to  "  smoke  of  the  First 
Day  morning."  In  like  manner,  elsewhere,  "the 
field-sprouts  of  April  and  May  "  was  changed  to 
"the  field-sprouts  of  Fourth  Month  and  Fifth 
Month ; "  "  the  short  last  daylight  of  December  " 
to  "the  short  last  daylight  of  Twelfth  Month," 
and  so  on,  —  all  our  good  old  pagan  names  for  the 
months  and  days,  wherever  they  occurred  in  the 
original  Leaves,  being  reduced  to  numbers,  in 
plain  Quaker  fashion,  or  got  rid  of  in  some  other 
way.  "  I  mind  how  we  lay  in  June  "  became  "  I 
mind  how  we  once  lay ;  "  and 

"  The  exquisite,  delicate,  thin  curve  of  the  new  moon  in  May  "  — 

a  most  exquisite  and  most  delicate  line,  it  may  be 
observed  in  passing  —  was  made  to  read,  not  "  new 
moon  in  Fifth  Month  "  (that  would  have  been  a 
little  too  bad),  but  "new  moon  in  spring."  I 
thought  all  of  these  alterations  unfortunate,  except 
possibly  the  last ;  nearly  all  involving  a  sacrifice 
of  euphony  or  of  atmosphere  in  the  lines.  When 


WALT  WHITMAN  397 

I  remonstrated  against  what  seemed  an  affecta 
tion,  he  told  me  that  he  was  brought  up  among 
Quakers ;  but  I  considered  that  too  narrow  a 
ground  for  the  throwing  out  of  words  in  common 
use  among  all  English-speaking  peoples  except  a 
single  sect.  To  my  mind,  it  was  another  proof 
that  in  matters  of  taste  and  judgment  he  was 
extremely  fallible,  and  capable  of  doing  unwise 
and  wayward  things  for  the  sake  of  a  theory  or  of 
a  caprice. 

In  one  important  particular  he  changed,  if  not 
his  theory,  at  least  his  practice.  After  the  edition 
of  1860  he  became  reserved  upon  the  one  subject 
tabooed  in  polite  society,  the  free  treatment  of 
which  he  had  declared  essential  to  his  scheme  of 
exhibiting  in  his  poems  humanity  entire  and 
undraped.  For  just  six  years,  from  1855  to  1860 
only,  he  illustrated  that  theory  with  arrogant 
defiance  ;  then  no  further  exemplifications  of  it 
appeared  in  all  his  prose  and  verse  for  more  than 
thirty  years,  or  as  long  as  he  continued  to  write. 
It  was  a  sudden  and  significant  change,  which 
was,  however,  covered  from  observation  in  the 
reshuffling  of  the  Leaves.  In  thus  reediting  the 
earlier  poems,  he  quietly  dropped  out  a  few  of  the 
most  startling  lines,  and  would,  I  believe,  have 
canceled  many  more,  but  his  pride  was  adamant 
to  anything  that  Deemed  a  concession. 


398  MY   OWN   STORY 

XI 

No  doubt  Whitman  suffered  some  impairment 
of  his  mental  faculties  in  the  long  years  of  his 
invalidism.  He  is  said  to  have  gone  over  to  the 
Bacon  side  of  the  Bacon-Shakespeare  controversy, 
and  even  to  have  accepted  the  Donnelly  cipher. 
How  confused  his  memory  became  on  one  sub 
ject  of  paramount  interest  is  evinced  by  a  passage 
in  his  Backward  Glance  o'er  Travel'd  Roads, 
where  he  says  of  the  beginnings  of  Leaves  of 
Grass  that,  although  he  had  "made  a  start  be 
fore,"  all  might  have  come  to  naught  —  "  almost 
positively  would  have  come  to  naught  "  —  but  for 
the  stimulus  he  received  from  the  "  sights  and 
scenes"  of  the  secession  war.  To  make  this 
more  emphatic,  he  adds  the  astounding  assertion, 
"Without  those  three  or  four  years  [1862  to 
1865],  and  the  experiences  they  gave,  Leaves  of 
Grass  would  not  now  be  existing."  Whereas  he 
had  only  to  look  at  his  title-pages  to  see  that  not 
his  first,  nor  his  second,  but  his  third  edition, 
comprising  the  larger  and  by  far  the  most  impor 
tant  part  of  his  poetic  work,  was  published  in 
1860,  months  before  the  first  gun  of  the  war  was 
fired  or  a  single  State  had  seceded.  After  this, 
we  need  not  wonder  that  he  forgot  he  had  read 
Emerson  before  writing  his  first  Leaves. 


WALT   WHITMAN  399 

When  Whitman's  genius  flows,  his  unhampered 
lines  suit  his  purpose  as  no  other  form  of  verse 
could  do.  The  thought  is  sometimes  elusive,  hid 
ing  in  metaphor  and  suggestion,  but  the  language 
is  direct,  idiomatic,  swift,  its  torrent  force  and 
copiousness  justifying  his  disregard  of  rhyme 
and  metre  ;  indeed,  it  has  often  a  wild,  swinging 
rhythm  of  its  own.  But  when  no  longer  impelled 
by  the  stress  of  meaning  and  emotion,  it  becomes 
strained  and  flavorless,  and,  at  its  worst,  involved, 
parenthetical,  enfeebled  by  weak  inversions. 

There  are  the  same  disturbing  inequalities  in 
his  prose  as  in  his  verse.  The  preface  to  his  first 
edition  exhibits  the  masterful  characteristics  of 
his  great  poems ;  indeed,  much  of  that  preface 
made  very  good  Leaves,  when  he  afterwards 
rewrote  it  in  lines  and  printed  it  as  poetry.  At 
its  worst,  his  prose  is  lax  and  slovenly,  or  it  takes 
on  ruggedness  to  simulate  strength,  and  jars  and 
jolts  like  a  farm  wagon  on  stony  roads.  Some  of 
his  published  letters  are  slipshod  in  their  composi 
tion,  and  in  their  disregard  of  capitalization  and 
punctuation,  almost  to  the  verge  of  illiteracy. 
Had  William  Shakespeare  left  any  authentic  writ 
ings  as  empty  of  thought  and  imagination,  and 
void  of  literary  value,  as  some  of  the  Calamus  let 
ters,  they  would  have  afforded  a  better  argument 
than  any  we  now  have  against  his  authorship  of 


400  MY   OWN    STORY 

the  plays.  Perhaps  some  future  tilter  at  wind 
mills  will  attempt  to  prove  that  the  man  we  know 
as  Walt  Whitman  was  an  uncultured  impostor, 
who  had  obtained  possession  of  a  mass  of  power 
ful  but  fragmentary  writings  by  some  unknown 
man  of  genius,  which  he  exploited,  pieced  to 
gether,  and  mixed  up  with  compositions  of  his 
own. 

But  after  all  deductions  it  remains  to  be  un 
equivocally  affirmed  that  Whitman  stands  as  a 
great  original  force  in  our  literature.  Art,  as  ex 
emplified  by  such  poets  as  Longfellow  and  Ten 
nyson,  he  has  little  or  none  ;  but  in  the  free  play 
of  his  power  he  produces  the  effect  of  an  art 
beyond  art.  His  words  are  often  steeped  in  the 
very  sentiment  of  the  themes  they  touch,  and 
suggest  more  than  they  express.  He  has  large 
ness  of  view,  an  all-including  optimism,  boundless 
love  and  faith.  To  sum  all  in  a  sentence,  I  should 
say  that  his  main  purpose  was  to  bring  into  his 
poems  Nature,  with  unflinching  realism,  —  espe 
cially  Nature's  divine  masterpiece,  Man  ;  and  to 
demonstrate  that  everything  in  Nature  and  in 
Man,  all  that  he  is,  feels,  and  observes,  is  worthy 
of  celebration  by  the  poet ;  not  in  the  old,  selec 
tive,  artificial  poetic  forms,  but  with  a  freedom  of 
method  commensurate  with  Nature's  own  ampli 
tude  and  unconstraint.  It  was  a  grand  conception, 


WALT  WHITMAN  401 

an  intrepid  revolt  against  the  established  canons 
of  taste  and  art,  a  challenge  and  a  menace  to  the 
greatest  and  most  venerated  names.  That  the 
attempt  was  not  so  foolhardy  as  at  first  appeared, 
and  that  it  has  not  been  altogether  a  failure,  the 
growing  interest  in  the  man  and  his  work  suffi 
ciently  attests  ;  and  who  can  say  how  greatly  it 
might  not  have  succeeded,  if  adequate  judgment 
had  reinforced  his  genius,  and  if  his  inspiration 
had  continued  as  long  as  he  continued  to  write  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 


I  MADE  acquaintance  with  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
soon  after  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was  started, 
and  from  that  time  was  often  in  the  way  of  meet 
ing  him  at  receptions,  banquets,  and  on  more 
private  occasions.  One  of  the  first  talks  I  ever 
had  with  him  was  at  some  gathering,  I  have  for 
gotten  what,  when,  allusion  being  made  to  the 
grammatical  inaccuracies  of  famous  writers,  I 
instanced  the  opening  lines  of  The  Prisoner  of 
Chillon,  — 

"  My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  ;  "  — 

and  also  Byron's  "  There  let  him  lay ! "  which 
occurs  in  the  famous  address  to  the  ocean,  in 
Childe  Harold.  The  Autocrat  remarked,  in  his 
quick,  nervous  way,  "  Suppose  Trowbridge  or 
Holmes  had  made  those  blunders !  would  n't  the 
critics  have  had  a  war  dance  ? "  As  he  had 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES         403 

already  achieved  a  dazzling  reputation,  while  I  had 
none  to  speak  of,  this  coupling  of  our  names  to 
gether  was  to  me,  I  confess,  flatteringly  pleasant. 

Another  colloquy  I  recall  that  began  less 
auspiciously.  It  was  at  an  Atlantic  dinner, 
where,  a  seat  beside  me  becoming  vacant,  he 
came  and  occupied  it.  He  betrayed  not  a  little 
irritation  as  he  began,  — 

"  I  Ve  a  nut  to  crack  with  you  !  The  critic  of 
the  "  —  no  matter  what  publication  —  "  says  you 
can  write  better  than  I  can.  What  do  you  think 
of  that  ?  " 

I  tried  to  parry  the  question  with  an  allusion  I 
thought  would  please  him.  "  That  must  be  when 
you  are  not  writing  'as  funny  as  you  can,'  doc 
tor."  But  he  shook  his  head,  and  insisted  :  what 
did  I  really  think  of  it  ?  Such  a  comparison 
being  too  absurd  to  be  taken  seriously,  I  re 
plied,  — 

"  That 's  a  critic  after  my  own  heart !  If  only 
all  were  as  astute!  But  here's  a  scribbler  in 
the  "  - 1  named  the  print  —  "  who  says  Edmund 
Kirke  can  write  better  than  I  can.  So  what  am 
I  to  think  ? " 

Thereupon  the  cloud  turned  its  silver  lining. 
He  laughed  and  said :  "  If  you  can  write  better 
than  I,  and  Kirke  can  write  better  than  you,  then 
Kirke  is  the  man  !  We  know  where  we  are  !  " 


404  MY   OWN    STORY 

At  table  he  was  unflaggingly  vivacious,  ready 
at  repartee,  as  witty  as  Lowell  without  Lowell's 
audacity  at  punning  (they  called  each  other  "  Wen 
dell"  and  "James,"  talking  perhaps  from  one  end 
of  the  table  to  the  other),  and,  for  the  immediate 
moment,  as  wise  as  Emerson.  Underwood,  in  his 
monograph  on  Lowell,  The  Poet  and  the  Man, 
has  by  some  lapse  of  memory  misquoted  a  passage 
of  words  that  took  place  between  Emerson  and 
Holmes  at  one  of  the  early  Atlantic  dinners. 
The  conversation  was  upon  the  orders  of  archi 
tecture  ;  it  was  Emerson,  not  Holmes,  who  had 
been  saying  that  the  Egyptian  was  characterized 
by  breadth  of  base,  the  Grecian  by  the  adequate 
support,  and  the  Gothic  by  its  skyward  soaring. 
Then  it  was  Holmes,  not  Emerson,  who  flashed 
out  instantly,  "  One  is  for  death,  one  is  for  life, 
and  one  is  for  immortality."  I  did  not  hear  this, 
but  it  was  repeated  to  me  at  the  time  by  one  who 
did. 

At  another  of  the  Atlantic  dinners,  Holmes 
surpassed  even  himself  in  the  sparkle  and  flow  of 
his  Autocratic  dissertations.  Hardly  any  one  sus 
pected  that  he  had  in  his  napkin  the  proofs  of  his 
next  Autocrat  paper,  procured  for  him  by  one  of 
the  publishers  of  the  magazine,  who  was  present, 
and  who  afterwards  imparted  to  me  the  secret. 

Many  anecdotes  illustrative  of  the  doctor's  wit 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES         405 

were  current  in  those  years.  I  will  cite  but  one. 
When  the  friends  of  the  rival  claimants  of  the  dis 
covery  of  anaesthesia  were  proposing  monuments 
for  each,  Holmes  suggested  that  all  should  unite 
in  erecting  a  single  memorial,  with  a  central  group 
symbolizing  painless  surgery,  a  statue  of  Jackson 
on  one  side,  a  statue  of  Morton  on  the  other,  and 
the  inscription  beneath  :  "To  E(i)ther." 

II 

I  never  heard  Holmes  converse  when  he  did 
not  converse  well ;  and  once  at  least  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  contributing  in  some  degree  to  his 
flow  of  spirits.  Underwood,  inviting  me  to  a  sup 
per  at  which  the  doctor  was  to  be  the  guest  of 
honor,  begged  that  I  would  come  prepared  to  make 
a  little  speech,  or  to  read  something  appropriate 
to  the  occasion.  As  speech-making  was  always 
irksome  to  me,  I  scribbled  some  lines  heartily 
appreciative  of  the  Autocrat,  which  I  carried  with 
me,  and  read,  at  a  call  from  Underwood,  in  a  lull 
of  the  conversation.  The  next  day  I  received  a 
letter  from  our  host,  in  which  he  wrote  :  "  It  is  to 
you,  more  than  any  one  else,  that  the  success  of 
last  evening  is  due.  Your  poem  was  not  only  a 
pleasure  in  itself,  but  it  wrought  a  great  change 
in  the  guest,  and  brought  forth  all  his  brilliant 
powers.  I  never  heard  him  talk  so  well." 


4o6  MY   OWN   STORY 

With  one  of  the  kindest  hearts,  open  to  friends, 
and  often  sympathizingly  helpful  to  strangers,  he 
yet  cherished  a  sort  of  Brahminical  exclusiveness  ; 
something  in  the  earlier  Autocrat  papers  even 
made  you  feel  that  he  was  at  times  too  compla 
cently  conscious  of  a  superior  caste  and  culture. 
The  tone  of  his  writings  softened  and  his  nature 
grew  ever  more  kindly  with  years.  The  Poet  at 
the  Breakfast-Table  was  considered  less  successful 
than  its  predecessors,  the  Autocrat  and  the  Pro 
fessor  ;  but  there  was  noticeable  in  the  later  writ 
ings  an  increased  mellowness  of  flavor  that  com 
pensated  for  any  supposed  falling  off  in  the  wit. 
While  they  were  running  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
I  read  them  always  eagerly  in  advance  sheets, 
begged  or  borrowed  from  the  editorial  room  (then 
immediately  under  that  of  Our  Young  Folks,  in 
the  building  on  Tremont  Street),  neglecting  all 
other  occupations  for  that  instant  indulgence. 
Very  likely  this  was  one  of  a  happy  combination 
of  circumstances  that  caused  me  to  see  in  them 
what  I  might  look  for  in  vain  to-day ;  our  early 
enthusiasms  are  so  apt  to  pale  in  the  light  of  later 
experiences  and  changed  conditions.  Re-reading 
those  papers  now,  thirty  years  and  more  after 
wards,  would  no  doubt  cause  me  to  wonder  a  little 
at  that  particular  enthusiasm  ;  but  I  am  glad  I  had 
it,  since  it  moved  me  to  express,  in  a  letter  to  the 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES         407 

doctor,  my  appreciation  of  the  genial  quality  that 
breathed  in  the  new  series,  "bathing  all  in  the 
softest  Indian  Summer  air."  The  recognition  was 
probably  all  the  more  welcome  to  him  on  account 
of  the  disparaging  criticisms  the  monthly  num 
bers  were  provoking  from  the  press  in  many  quar 
ters.  He  wrote  in  reply  (under  date  of  May  12, 
1872)  :  "  I  was  just  sitting  down  to  write  when  I 
received  your  letter,  which  gave  me  such  singular 
pleasure  that  I  must  tell  you  how  much  happier 
I  was  made  by  it.  Perhaps  I  wanted  a  pleasant 
word  to  give  me  heart  for  what  I  was  doing ;  at 
any  rate  I  felt  really  refreshed  by  your  kind  ex 
pressions,  and  very  grateful.  ...  A  few  lines  of 
sympathy  from  one,  the  value  of  whose  esteem  we 
know,  go  a  great  way  towards  repaying  an  author 
for  his  cares  and  labors.  You  may  be  sure  that 
you  obeyed  a  very  healthy  impulse  when  you  sent 
me  a  note  which  I  shall  keep  among  the  treasures 
of  my  correspondence." 

He  was  frankly  fond  of  praise,  and  although 
few  men  of  letters  ever  breathed  that  incense 
more  frequently  or  with  fuller  breath,  he  never 
lost  his  amiable  and  sincere  enjoyment  of  it.  He 
once  told  me  of  a  letter  he  had  received  from  an 
ardent  lady  admirer,  and  well  I  recall  the  gusto 
with  which  he  exclaimed,  "  It  is  gushing !  and  I 
like  it  ! "  What  he  relished  with  such  zest  he  in 


408  MY   OWN    STORY 

turn  generously  bestowed,  and  I  have  letters  of 
his  regarding  some  things  of  mine  that  had  in 
terested  and  pleased  him  —  beautifully  written 
letters,  their  neat  and  graceful  chirography  now 
faded  by  time  —  which  I  "  keep  among  the  trea 
sures  of  my  correspondence,"  to  quote  words  that 
have  so  much  deeper  a  significance  in  my  case 
than  they  could  have  had  in  his  own. 

Ill 

The  doctor's  small,  upright,  animated  figure 
seemed  possessed  of  inexhaustible  vitality,  but  in 
his  advancing  years  his  public  appearances  be 
came  a  severe  drain  upon  it,  and  he  felt  the  need 
of  husbanding  it  for  special  efforts,  as  he  confided 
to  me  on  more  than  one  occasion.  We  were  both 
engaged  to  deliver  poems  at  the  great  Moore  Fes 
tival,  given  in  Boston  in  May,  1879,  in  celebration 
of  the  Irish  poet's  centennial  birthday ;  and  I  re 
tain  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  the  Autocrat's  dis 
may  when  we  learned  that  the  guests  had  been 
brought  together  an  hour  before  the  banquet  was 
to  take  place !  After  talking  for  twenty  minutes 
or  so  to  those  who  crowded  around  him,  eager  to 
catch  a  word  from  his  lips,  he  whispered  to  me 
despairingly,  "  Help  me  out  of  this  ;  don't  let  any 
body  follow !  " 

I  said  in  alarm,  "  You  are  not  going  away  !  " 


OLIVER  WENDELL    HOLMES 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES         409 

"  For  half  an  hour,"  he  replied.  "I  am  going 
to  get  into  a  horse-car  and  ride  up  and  down  until 
the  real,  honest  hour  for  the  dinner  arrives.  I 
must  save  my  voice  for  my  poem." 

He  returned  in  time  to  go  in  fresh  and  smiling 
to  the  dinner  on  the  arm  of  that  gifted  young 
Irish  revolutionist  and  adventurer,  journalist  and 
poet,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  while  I  followed  with 
General  Patrick  A.  Collins  (now  Mayor  of  Bos 
ton)  for  an  escort.  These  two  noted  Irish-Ameri 
cans  were  among  the  foremost  promoters  of  the 
festival,  but  not,  I  think,  responsible  for  the  too 
early  assembling  of  the  guests  ;  and  I  doubt  that 
either  of  them  knew  what  had  become  of  the  doc 
tor  in  that  half  hour  interval.  He  was  in  fine 
voice  for  his  poem.1 

IV 

A  few  months  later,  in  December  of  that  same 
year,  1879,  I  na(^  tne  honor  of  uniting  in  the  cele 
bration  of  Dr.  Holmes's  seventieth  birthday,  con 
tributing  a  poem,  Filling  an  Order,  to  the  post 
prandial  exercises,  at  the  famous  Breakfast  given 
to  him  by  his  publishers.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
notable  gatherings  of  literary  celebrities  from  far 
and  near  which  Boston  had  ever  witnessed.  The 

1  My  own  poem,  read  at  the  Moore  Banquet,  was  Recollec 
tions  of  Lalla  Rookh. 


4io  MY   OWN   STORY 

Autocrat's  own  beautiful  and  touching  poem,  The 
Iron  Gate,  read  in  a  voice  at  times  tenderly  play 
ful,  at  others  vibrant  with  deeper  emotion,  was 
of  course  the  memorable  event  of  the  Breakfast, 
and  worthy  of  the  audience  and  the  hour.  His 
praises  were  sounded  by  others  in  every  key,  in 
prose  and  verse ;  but  I  shall  speak  here  only  of 
my  own  contribution. 

The  Order,  fabled  to  have  been  received  by 
Dame  Nature  in  her  laboratory,  was  for  "  three 
geniuses,"  one  a  bard,  one  wise,  and  one  supremely 
witty,  to  grace  an  obscure  town  by  the  sea  named 
Boston.  The  finer  ingredients  were  mixed,  and 
the  souls  set  to  steep,  each  in  its  glowing  ves 
sel  :  — 

In  each  by  turns  she  poured,  she  stirred,  she  skimmed  the  shining 

liquor, 
Threw  laughter  in,  to  make  it  thin,  or  thought,  to   make   it 

thicker ; 

But  when  she  came  to  choose  the  clay,  she  found,  to  her  vex 
ation, 

That,  with  a  stock  on  hand  to  fill  an  order  for  a  nation, 
Of  that  more  finely  tempered  stuff,  electric  and  ethereal, 
Of  which  a  genius  must  be  formed,  she  had  but  scant  material  — 
For  three  ?  for  one  I     What  should  be  done  ?    A  bright  idea 

struck  her ; 

Her  old  witch  eyes  began  to  shine,  her  mouth  began  to  pucker. 
Says  she,  "  The  fault,  I  'm  well  aware,  with  genius  is,  the  pre 
sence 

Of  altogether  too  much  clay,  with  quite  too  little  essence, 
And  sluggish  atoms  that  obstruct  the  spiritual  solution  ; 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES         411 

So  now,  instead  of  spoiling  these  by  over-much  dilution, 

With  their  fine  elements  I  '11  make  a  single,  rare  phenomenon, 

And  of  three  common  geniuses  concoct  a  most  uncommon  one, 

So  that  the  world  shall  smile  to  see  a  soul  so  universal, 

Such  poesy  and  pleasantry,  packed  in  so  small  a  parcel." 

So  said,  so  done ;  the  three  in  one  she  wrapped,  and  stuck  the 

label : 
Poet,  Professor,  Autocrat  of  Wifs  mvn  Breakfast-Table. 

I  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  I  had  the 
audience  with  me  in  the  reading ;  and  that  the 
fable  pleased  the  subject  of  it  I  was  gratifyingly 
assured  in  a  letter  I  received  from  him  a  few  days 
later,  from  which  I  cannot  forbear  quoting  a  single 
sentence  :  — 

"  I  thought  your  poem  excellent  when  I  listened 
to  it,  but  my  hearing  is  not  so  sharp  as  it  once 
was,  and  I  did  not  know  how  excellent,  how  neat, 
ingenious,  terse,  artistic  it  was  until  I  came  to 

read  it." 

V 

One  of  the  later  occasions  in  which  my  voice 
was  publicly  heard  with  the  Autocrat's  was  the 
Garden  Party,  given  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  and 
Company,  at  Governor  Claflin's  country  house  in 
Newton,  to  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  in  cele 
bration  of  her  seventieth  birthday.  This  was  in 
the  leafy  month  of  June,  1882.  At  that  open 
air  festival  we  heard  Mrs.  Stowe  herself,  her 
brother,  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  and  other  celeb- 


4i2  MY   OWN    STORY 

rities ;  but  the  chief  event  was  Dr.  Holmes's 
poem. 

The  doctor's  voice  was  not  remarkable, — it 
was  slightly  husky,  and  lacking  in  clear  reso 
nance,  but  in  his  use  of  it  he  made  you  forget 
that  it  was  not  the  fittest  organ  for  his  purpose; 
just  as  you  were  rendered  oblivious  of  his  inferior 
stature  (five  feet  four  or  five)  by  his  animation 
and  perfect  aplomb.  Surely  no  other  so  narrow 
human  jaw  was  ever  the  gateway  of  such  intelli 
gent  and  forceful  speech  ("the  smallest  adult  jaw 
I  ever  fitted  teeth  to,"  his  dentist  once  said  to 
me) ;  but  it  had  a  nervous  tension  that  compen 
sated  for  its  insignificant  size.  Lowell,  Longfel 
low,  Whittier,  Hawthorne,  Agassiz,  like  the  most 
of  his  great  contemporaries,  might  have  justified 
the  findings  of  the  phrenologist  or  physiognomist ; 
but  he,  even  more  than  Emerson,  demonstrated 
the  truth  that,  of  brains,  quality  is  better  than 
quantity,  that  spirit  is  more  than  flesh.  He  was 
a  living  disproof  of  Whitman's  proud  attestation 
that  "size  is  only  development." 

The  Autocrat's  voice  and  manner  were  never 
more  effective  than  on  that  refulgent  afternoon  at 
the  Claflin  Garden  Party.  Who  that  was  present 
can  ever  have  forgotten  the  two  opening  stanzas 
of  his  poem,  The  World's  Homage,  in  which  he 
fancied  people  of  every  land  who  had  read  Uncle 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES         413 

Tom  summoned  to  the  table,  and  the  Babel  of 
tongues  that  would  have  been  heard  there  ? 

"  Briton  and  Frenchman,  Swede  and  Dane, 
Turk,  Spaniard,  Tartar  of  Ukraine, 

Hidalgo,  Cossack,  Cadi, 
High  Dutchman  and  Low  Dutchman,  too, 
The  Russian  serf,  the  Polish  Jew, 
Arab,  Armenian,  and  Mantchoo, 

Would  shout, '  We  know  the  lady  I '  " 

Only  to  those  who  heard  him  can  the  cold 
types  convey  an  idea  of  the  emphasis  and  percus 
sive  force  of  enunciation  which  he  flung  into  this 
felicitously  rhymed,  surprisingly  collocated  list  of 
names.  It  was  greeted  by  such  an  outburst  of 
irrepressible  applause  as  was  not  heard  before  or 
after  on  that  day,  not  even  at  the  close  of  his 
reading.  As  I  joined  in  the  hand-clapping  and 
watched  the  face  of  Mrs.  Stowe  wreathed  in 
smiles,  I  fortunately  forgot  my  own  dozen  or  more 
four-line  stanzas,  snugly  folded  away  in  my  breast 
pocket,  to  be  unfolded  and  to  come  forth  later. 

As  the  persistent  and  prolonged  uproar  sub 
sided,  it  was  with  a  startled  feeling  that  I  remem 
bered  the  ordeal  of  comparison  before  me,  and 
with  something  like  a  cowardly  wish  that  the 
verses  I  had  thought  tolerably  well  of  up  to  that 
moment  might  be  quietly  dropped  from  the  cata 
logue  of  things  to  be  called  for.  I  must  acknow- 


4i4  MY   OWN   STORY 

ledge  that  the  feeling  marred  a  little  my  enjoy 
ment  of  the  remainder  of  Holmes's  recital,  and 
was  perhaps  the  cause  of  my  fancying  in  the  sub 
sequent  stanzas  a  falling  off  from  the  superla 
tively  bright  and  vigorous  opening.  Or  was  it 
possible  (as  these  are  very  frank  memoirs,  I  ven 
ture  the  suggestion),  —  was  it  barely  possible  that 
I  indulged  a  secret  hope  that  the  prestige  of  those 
dazzling  first  flashes  might  be  mercifully  tempered, 
for  my  sake  ? 

If  for  a  moment  I  cherished  that  feeble  hope,  I 
had  ample  time  to  return  to  a  more  resolute  and 
generous  frame  of  mind  before  delivering  my  tri 
bute.  The  doctor  was  followed  by  other  readers 
and  speakers,  who  caused  my  interest  in  my  own 
forthcoming  effort  to  rise  by  degrees,  to  revive, 
and  put  forth  buds  of  faith  and  buoyant  expec 
tation,  until  I  finally  stepped  upon  the  improvised 
platform  with  a  tranquil  confidence  not  unjusti 
fied,  I  think,  by  the  reception  accorded  to  my 
reading  of  The  Cabin.  As  was  inevitable,  some 
of  the  thoughts  in  the  doctor's  poem  were  paral 
leled  in  my  own. 

The  Slave  went  forth  through  all  the  earth, 

He  preached  to  priest  and  rabbin ; 
He  spoke  all  tongues ;  in  every  land 

Opened  that  lowly  Cabin. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES         415 

VI 

One  or  two  briefly  told  anecdotes  must  close 
these  desultory  reminiscences  of  one  of  Boston's 
most  remarkable  men.  Going  once  to  hear  a  lec 
ture  by  Matthew  Arnold,  I  entered  the  hall  early, 
and,  seeing  Holmes  alone  in  one  of  the  central 
seats,  took  a  place  beside  him  for  a  chat  while 
the  audience  was  coming  in.  Soon  we  saw  Rev. 
James  Freeman  Clarke  wandering  down  one  of 
the  side  aisles,  with  his  numbered  ticket  in  his 
hand,  scanning  the  backs  of  seats. 

"  There,"  said  the  doctor,  "  is  my  Double.  We 
were  friends  in  boyhood,  we  were  classmates  in 
college,  our  orbits  are  forever  crossing ;  wherever 
I  go  he  appears.  I  can  no  more  avoid  him  than  I 
can  my  own  shadow."  While  he  was  relating 
some  curious  instance  of  this  seeming  fatality, 
Clarke  drew  near,  still  observing  the  backs  of 
rows  ;  when  I  inquired,  — 

"What  is  your  number,  Mr.  Clarke?"  He 
named  it.  "Here  it  is,"  I  said,  "beside  Dr. 
Holmes ;  I  am  in  your  seat." 

One  afternoon,  in  the  years  of  which  I  am  writ 
ing,  I  chanced  to  call  upon  Mr.  Longfellow  just 
after  he  had  received  a  visit  from  the  doctor. 

"  What  a  delightful  man  he  is  !  "  said  he.  "  But 
he  has  left  me,  as  he  generally  does,  with  a  head- 


4i6  MY  OWN   STORY 

ache."  When  I  inquired  the  cause,  he  replied  : 
"The  movement  of  his  mind  is  so  much  more 
rapid  than  mine,  that  I  often  find  it  difficult  to 
follow  him,  and  if  I  keep  up  the  strain  for  any 
length  of  time,  a  headache  is  the  penalty." 

Every  one  who  knew  the  Autocrat  must  have 
been  impressed  by  this  trait  ascribed  to  him  by 
Longfellow,  —  the  extraordinary  rapidity  of  his 
mental  processes.  Not  that  he  talked  fast,  but 
that  his  turns  of  thought  were  surprisingly  bright 
and  quick,  and  often  made  with  a  kind  of  scientific 
precision,  agreeably  in  contrast  with  the  looseness 
of  statement  commonly  characterizing  those  who 
speak  volubly  and  think  fast.  In  one  of  the  early 
Autocrat  papers  he  made  this  comparison  :  "  Writ 
ing  or  printing  is  like  shooting  with  a  rifle ;  you 
may  hit  your  reader's  mind,  or  miss  it.  But  talk 
ing  is  like  playing  at  a  mark  with  the  pipe  of  an 
engine ;  if  it  is  within  reach,  and  you  have  time 
enough,  you  can't  help  hitting  it."  His  own  talk 
was  less  like  hose-playing  than  most  men's.  It 
was  more  like  shooting  with  a  rifle,  —  and  it  was 
always  sure  to  hit.  In  view  of  this  habitual  viva 
city,  how  we  must  marvel  at  his  length  of  life, 
measured  not  by  years  only,  but  by  the  amount 
of  thought  and  feeling  and  spiritual  energy  that 
animated  him  throughout  his  long  and  fortunate 
career ! 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES          417 

Holmes's  place  among  the  writers  of  his  time 
is  distinctly  assured.  He  enriched  our  literature 
with  a  new  form  of  essay  as  distinctly  individual 
as  Montaigne's  or  Charles  Lamb's.  In  metrical 
composition  his  work  is  voluminous  and  varied, 
much  of  it  ephemeral,  but  all  of  it  lucid  and  musi 
cal  ;  and  he  has  left  a  few  lyrics  that  take  high 
rank  —  one  of  them  almost  the  highest  —  as  pure 
poetry.  A  characteristic  note  is  a  certain  playful 
tenderness ;  and  I  think  his  Muse  charms  us  most 
when  she  appears,  like  the  bride  in  the  ballad,  — 

"  With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,"  — 

when  the  verses  are  dewy  and  tremulous  with  a 
feeling  which  the  wit  irradiates  and  sets  off,  yet 
seems  half  designed  to  conceal. 

"  Of  sweet  singers  the  most  sane, 
Of  keen  wits  the  most  humane." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LONGFELLOW 


ALTHOUGH  Longfellow  was  not  one  of  my  liter 
ary  passions,  —  perhaps  because  I  came  under  his 
influence  so  gradually,  —  the  spirit  that  breathed 
in  his  poems  inspired  in  me  a  feeling  of  love  and 
admiration  long  before  I  saw  him,  —  a  feeling  that 
grew  in  depth  and  constancy  after  I  was  admitted 
to  his  acquaintance,  and  the  acquaintance  ripened 
into  friendship. 

That  honor  was  rather  late  in  coming  to  me, 
entirely  through  my  own  perverse  neglect  of  op 
portunities,  which  I  have  elsewhere  confessed  and 
deplored.  When  the  hour  of  meeting  came,  it 
was  he  who  took  the  initial  step  toward  it.  Grasp 
ing  my  hand  warmly,  he  began  at  once  to  talk  to 
me  of  my  poems  with  a  delightful  sincerity  that 
blew  away  like  dandelion  woof  or  thistle-down  the 
last  film  and  feather  of  my  aloofness,  and  made 
me  humbly  ashamed  of  it,  when  he  inquired 
earnestly,  — 

"  Why  have  you  never  come  to  see  me  ? " 


LONGFELLOW  419 

"  Because,"  I  said,  "  I  never  felt  that  the  work 
I  have  been  trying  to  do  gave  me  any  right  to 
intrude  myself  on  your  attention."  And,  with 
the  frankness  that  is  often  the  twin  sister  of 
reserve,  I  went  on  to  speak  of  his  being  already 
a  famous  poet,  a  Cambridge  professor,  a  man  re 
presenting  the  highest  culture,  when  I  first  came 
to  Boston  with  the  odor  of  my  native  backwoods 
still  upon  me, — without  friends,  or  academic  ac-1 
quirements,  or  advantages  of  any  sort ;  —  and  of 
the  feeling  I  could  never  quite  get  over,  of  the 
immense  distance  between  us. 

"That,"  he  replied,  "is  the  effect  of  mirage;  it 
is  illusion.  At  any  rate,  there  is  no  such  distance 
now."  And  there  never  was,  from  that  time 

forth. 

II 

Longfellow  was  slightly  below  the  medium 
stature,  but  of  a  sufficiently  stocky  build,  well 
planted  on  his  feet,  as  the  French  say ;  with 
strong,  symmetrical  features,  which  must  have 
been  singularly  handsome  in  his  youth  as  they 
were  singularly  noble  in  his  later  years ;  the  fore 
head  sweeping  to  a  shapely  width  in  constructive- 
ness  and  ideality;  mild  blue  eyes  under  fine 
brows,  and  hair  and  beard  of  patriarchal  white 
ness.  Charles  Kingsley  said  of  him  in  1 868  :  "  I 
do  not  think  I  ever  saw  a  finer  human  face ; " 


420  MY  OWN  STORY 

which  might  have  been  truly  said  of  him  to  the 
last. 

He  had  the  simplicity  of  manners  which  belongs 
to  strong,  true  natures,  and  a  tact  and  sympathy 
that  prompted  him  to  meet  all  persons  on  their 
own  ground  of  interest  and  experience.  Of  all 
people  I  ever  knew  he  was  the  most  charitable  in 
speech,  tolerant  even  of  faults  which  society 
deems  it  dangerous  to  condone.  I  never  heard 
him  speak  with  anything  like  indignant  condem 
nation  of  anybody  except  a  certain  class  of  critics 
who  sit  in  judgment  upon  works  they  have  neither 
the  heart  to  feel  nor  the  sense  to  understand. 
Some  kind  friend  once  sent  me  a  review  in  which 
a  poor  little  volume  of  my  own  verse  was  scalped 
and  tomahawked  with  savage  glee.  Turning  the 
page,  I  was  consoled  to  see  a  volume  of  Longfel 
low's  treated  in  the  same  Ojibway  style;  for,  I 
reflected,  "  The  critic  who  strikes  at  him  blunts 
the  weapon  with  which  he  would  wound  others." 
Meeting  him  in  a  day  or  two,  I  found  that  some 
equally  well-meaning  friend  had  sent  him  a  copy 
of  the  same  review.  I  was  surprised  to  see  how 
much  he  was  annoyed  by  it,  and  said  to  him,  — 

"  I  may  well  be  disturbed  when  they  try  to  blow 
out  my  small  lantern,  but  why  should  you  care 
when  they  puff  away  at  your  star  ? " 

He  replied,  "  The  ill-will  of  anybody  hurts  me. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


LONGFELLOW  421 

Besides,  there  are  people  who  will  believe  what 
this  man  says.  If  he  cannot  speak  well  of  a  book, 
why  speak  of  it  at  all  ?  " 

"He  must  earn  his  bread,"  I  suggested. 

"  So,"  he  replied,  "  must  the  hired  assassin  and 
the  highwayman." 

Ill 

He  had  suffered  from  abundant  unjust  and  fool 
ish  criticism  in  earlier  days ;  but  I  do  not  believe 
his  wise,  calm  spirit  was  ever  more  than  tempo 
rarily  ruffled  by  it.  Older  readers  will  remember 
the  very  general  depreciation,  the  ridicule  in  para 
phrase  and  parody,  with  which  Hiawatha  was  at 
first  received.  But  Hiawatha  quickly  came  to 
rival  Evangeline  in  public  favor ;  and  the  relent 
ing  reviewers  joined  afterwards  in  the  chorus  of 
its  praise.  Evangeline  had  likewise  been  the  sub 
ject  of  much  adverse  comment,  especially  in  re 
spect  to  the  hexameters,  which  were  declared 
unsuited  for  English  verse.  Poe's  ridicule  of  them 
remains  a  brilliant  example  of  a  style  of  criticism 
common  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  but 
which  is  hardly  possible  among  self-respecting 
men  of  letters  to-day.  Having  resorted  to  the 
old  trick  of  printing  as  prose  a  passage  selected 
for  his  purpose,  to  illustrate  the  absence  of  the 
spondee,  indispensable  in  the  Greek  hexameter, 


422  MY   OWN    STORY 

he  went  on  to  say  that  he  could  manage  the  point 
Longfellow  and  others  had  missed ;  giving  as  a 
sample  these  lines,  in  which  the  spondee  is  very 
much  in  evidence  :  — 

"  Du  tell !  when  shall  we  hope  to  make  men  of  sense  out  of 

the  Pundits 
Born  and  brought  up  with  their  snouts  deep  down  in  the  mud 

of  the  Frog  Pond  ? 

Why  ask  ?  who  ever  yet  saw  money  made  out  of  a  fat  old 
Jew,  or  downright,  upright  nutmegs  out  of  a  pine  knot  ?  " 

This  was  very  funny ;  and  "  du  tell,"  "  deep 
down,"  "Frog  Pond,"  and  the  like  are  good  spon 
dees.  But  Poe  himself  felt  obliged  to  apologize 
for  the  dactyls ;  "  hope  to  make,"  "  men  of  sense," 
"born  and  brought,"  which  take  the  place  of  dac 
tyls,  being,  properly  speaking,  not  dactyls  at  all. 
Such  criticism  goes  to  show  that  the  Greek  and 
Latin  hexameter  is  not  possible  in  English  verse, 
nor  in  any  verse  that  is  scanned  by  accents,  and 
not  by  long  and  short  syllables.  This  Longellow 
knew  as  well  as  anybody,  and  what  he  attempted 
was  some  such  adaptation  of  it  as  Goethe  had 
brought  into  favor  with  German  readers  in  his 
Hermann  und  Dorothea.  Poe's  travesty  had  long 
been  forgotten,  or  it  was  kept  in  the  minds  of 
men  only  by  Poe's  growing  fame  as  a  poet,  and 
Longfellow  could  well  afford  to  smile  at  it  benig- 
nantly,  as  he  did  at  that  and  Poe's  other  attacks 


LONGFELLOW  423 

upon  him,  when  I  once  ventured  to  recall  them  to 
his  mind ;  for  his  choice  of  metre,  and  his  easy 
management  of  it,  had  been  amply  justified  by 
time  and  the  judgment  of  mankind ;  the  flowing 
hexameters  which  relate  Evangeline's  beautiful 
story  continuing  to  be  read,  then  as  now,  by 
learned  and  unlearned  alike,  with  perennial  de 
light. 

IV 

Longfellow  had  little  of  Holmes's  facility  in 
writing  occasional  verses,  and  still  less  of  Holmes's 
boyish  delight  in  reciting  them.  Yet  Holmes 
himself  never  wrote  anything  more  graceful  than 
the  tribute  to  Agassiz  on  Ihis  fiftieth  birthday, 
or  more  delightfully  rollicking  than  the  other 
Agassiz  poem,  Noel,  written  in  French,  —  a  trifle, 
indeed,  but  yet  a  tour  de  force,  appreciated  by 
those  at  least  to  whom  French  is  an  acquired 
tongue,  and  who  have  adventured  their  poetic 
feet  among  the  hedges  and  pitfalls  of  the  hiatus 
and  other  artificial  restrictions  of  French  verse. 
It  may  be  in  place  here  to  repeat  what  Longfel 
low's  brother-in-law,  Thomas  G.  Appleton,  once 
said  to  me  of  the  poet's  mastery  of  modern  lan 
guages  and  literatures.  "  It  is  an  accomplishment 
which  his  fame  as  a  poet  has  too  much  overshad 
owed,  but  which  should  give  him  a  foremost  repu 
tation  among  American  scholars." 


424  MY  OWN   STORY 

Holmes  could  hang  his  halo  of  verse  on  any 
star  of  occasion,  but  Longfellow  needed  an  im 
pulse  from  within.  When  urged  by  his  Bowdoin 
classmates  to  write  something  for  their  semi 
centennial  anniversary,  no  happy  .thought  sug 
gested  itself,  and  he  hastened  to  unburden  his 
mind  of  the  care  and  responsibility  of  such  a 
task  by  positively  declining  it.  Then  came  the 
inspiring  motive  of  Morituri  Salutamus,  one  of 
his  noblest  poems,  drawn  from  the  deeps  of  his 
poetic  nature,  and  written  in  a  glow  of  enjoyment 
chilled  only  by  the  prospective  ordeal  of  public 
delivery.  The  final  announcement  that  he  was 
to  appear  in  person  and  read  his  poem  thrilled 
with  joyous  expectation  every  son  of  Bowdoin, 
and  rallied  to  the  college,  on  the  eventful  day, 
such  throngs  of  its  alumni  and  friends  as  it  never 
saw  gathered  before.  I  think  that,  when  the  hour 
came,  he  rather  enjoyed  what  he  had  dreaded  ; 
and  his  kindly  nature  must  have  been  gratified  by 
an  opportunity  of  giving  pleasure  to  so  many.  I 
asked  a  Bowdoin  man  how  Longfellow  bore  him 
self.  "  Finely ! "  he  said.  "  I  could  n't  hear  him, 
but  it  was  glory  enough  to  have  him  there,  and  to 
have  his  poem  in  print  afterwards." 


LONGFELLOW  425 

V 

His  voice  was  ill  fitted  for  public  speaking ;  it 
was  habitually  gentle  and  low,  and  it  was  irksome 
for  him  to  raise  it  above  the  conversational  pitch. 
I  never  heard  it  on  any  public  occasion  except 
once.  At  the  great  Boston  Banquet  given  by 
Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company  in  honor  of 
Whittier's  seventieth  birthday,  it  was  with  the 
utmost  difficulty  that  Whittier  himself  could  be 
prevailed  upon  to  be  present.  Growing  old  was 
bad  enough,  he  said,  "without  being  twitted  of 
it,"-  — as  Pickard  relates  in  his  full  and  graphic 
Life  of  the  poet.  A  sense  of  the  incongruity 
of  such  a  performance  with  the  principal  charac 
ter  left  out  finally  prevailed  over  his  diffidence ; 
almost  at  the  last  hour  he  consented  to  appear, 
and  in  acknowledgment  of  the  tremendous  ova 
tion  that  greeted  him,  he  spoke  a  few  well-chosen 
but  rather  hesitating  words,  which  could  not  be 
called  a  speech.  Even  then  he  would  not  trust 
himself  to  read  the  poem  he  had  prepared,  and 
which  he  had  in  advance  engaged  Longfellow  to 
read  for  him.  Longfellow  introduced  the  poem 
with  some  easy  conversational  remarks  ;  in  them, 
and  in  the  reading  of  Whittier's  Response,  his 
manner  was  self-possessed  and  unaffected;  but 
his  voice  lacked  carrying  quality ;  and  although  I 


426  MY   OWN    STORY 

was  in  a  position  to  catch  the  lowest  words  dis 
tinctly,  I  judged,  by  the  hollowing  of  hands 
behind  ears,  that  neither  he  nor  Whittier  was 
heard  well  at  the  remoter  tables. 

Longfellow,  Emerson,  and  Holmes  were  the 
chief  guests  of  honor,  besides  Whittier  himself. 
Holmes,  of  course,  had  a  poem  to  read,  and  he 
read  it  with  his  usual  enunciative  vigor.  Emer 
son,  who  was  already  beginning  to  show  signs  of 
the  decay  of  his  powers  which  progressed  slowly 
but  fatally  in  the  following  years,  made  a  few 
remarks  laudatory  of  Whittier,  and  particularly 
of  Whittier's  Ichabod,  which  he  then  proceeded 
to  read,  not  very  effectively,  as  it  proved.1 

1  I  had  also  prepared,  by  invitation,  a  poem  to  read  at  the 
Whittier  Banquet ;  but  as  the  subject  of  it  withdrew  in  the  midst 
of  the  proceedings  in  his  honor,  and  before  my  place  in  the  pro 
gramme  had  been  reached,  I  quietly  followed  his  example,  left 
the  speakers  still  speaking  (at  eleven  o'clock),  and  reserved  my 
Story  of  the  Barefoot  Boy  for  later  publication.  It  was  founded 
on  an  incident  of  the  poet's  boyhood,  which  I  had  from  his 
younger  brother  Matthew,  and  which  I  told  very  much  as  it  was 
told  to  me,  except  that  I  put  it  into  rhyme,  and  transferred  the 
scene  to  the  open  air  from  the  bedroom  and  bed  where  it  actually 
occurred.  Pickard,  in  his  Life  of  Whittier,  describes  the  cham 
ber  in  which  the  two  boys  slept,  and,  alluding  to  the  poem, 
adds :  "  The  two  little  Quaker  boys  had  found  they  could  lift 
each  other,  and  one  evening  experimented  upon  the  proposition 
made  by  the  elder,  that  by  lifting  each  other  in  turn  they  could 
rise  to  the  ceiling,  and  there  was  no  knowing  how  much  fur 
ther  if  they  were  out  of  doors !  The  prudent  lads  first  tried  the 


LONGFELLOW  427 

VI 

The  reading  of  Ichabod  was  regarded  by  Long 
fellow  as  one  of  two  unfortunate  mistakes  which 
were  committed,  by  famous  guests,  on  that  memo 
rable  evening.  In  talking  over  the  Banquet  with 
me  a  day  or  two  after,  he  asked  if  I  was  not  amazed 
at  Emerson's  want  of  tact  in  selecting  such  a  poem 
for  such  an  occasion. 

"Why,  no,"  I  answered  in  some  surprise;  "it 
did  n't  strike  me  so.  I  have  always  thought 
Ichabod  one  of  Whittier's  strongest  poems,  — 
perhaps  his  very  strongest  political  poem." 

"  But  what  a  terrible  denunciation  of  Web 
ster  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  was  perhaps  well 
enough  for  the  time  when  it  was  written ;  but 
the  passions  of  men  have  cooled,  and  I  am  sure 
Whittier  himself  regrets  having  made  so  terrible 
an  attack  upon  our  greatest  statesman,  —  once 
the  idol  of  Massachusetts,  and  still  believed  in  by 

experiment,  standing  upon  the  bed  in  their  little  room.    Trow- 
bridge  says  :  — 

" '  'T  was  a  shrewd  notion,  none  the  less, 
And  still,  in  spite  of  ill  success, 

It  somehow  has  succeeded. 
Kind  Nature  smiled  on  that  wise  child, 

Nor  could  her  love  deny  him 
The  large  fulfillment  of  his  plan, 
Since  he  who  lifts  his  brother  man 

In  turn  is  lifted  by  him.'  " 


428  MY  OWN   STORY 

a  large  number  of  those  present  at  the  dinner. 
Why  bring  up  again,  at  such  a  time,  a  subject 
that  must  be  offensive  to  many  ? " 

I  had  not  regarded  it  in  that  light ;  it  was 
characteristic  of  Longfellow's  large  charity  that 
he  had.  When  I  said  I  hardly  thought  the  par 
tisanship  of  the  poem  was  noticed  by  the  audi 
ence,  he  immediately  began  to  make  excuses  for 
Emerson,  saying,  "  Of  course,  he  took  only  the 
literary  view  of  it,  as  you  did." 

I  thought  this  curiously  illustrative  of  the  dif 
ference  in  temperament  between  Longfellow  and 
his  two  distinguished  friends.  He  lacked  the  fine 
ethical  energy  of  Emerson  and  the  forceful  im 
pulse  of  the  Quaker  poet,  while  his  abhorrence  of 
oppression  was  no  doubt  as  great  as  theirs.  He 
was  not  formed  for  conflict ;  he  shrank  from 
severity  of  censure  and  deprecated  injustice  even 
to  the  unjust.  He  who  had  written  and  published 
Poems  on  Slavery  as  early  as  1842,  when  to  utter 
a  word  against  the  divinely  appointed  institution 
was  to  invite  opprobrium,  —  he  who  was  Charles 
Sumner's  closest  friend,  admiring  in  him  the  war 
fare  he  was  himself  unfitted  to  wage,  —  must  be 
ranked  as  a  fearless  and  consistent  opponent  of 
slavery,  notwithstanding  the  charge  of  time-serv 
ing  once  brought  against  him  for  consenting  to 
the  omission  of  the  slavery  pieces  from  an  edition 


LONGFELLOW  429 

of  his  poems  otherwise  complete.  This  was  no 
sacrifice  of  principle,  although  he  perhaps  yielded 
too  much  to  the  representations  of  the  publisher, 
who  was  packing  his  goods,  so  to  speak,  for  a 
market  the  gates  of  which  were  too  narrow  for 
that  load.  These  were  not  his  best  poems,  nor 
even  his  second  best ;  they  continued  to  be  issued 
in  other  editions,  and  their  suppression  in  that 
particular  one  showed  no  such  "  subserviency  to 
the  slave  power"  as  some  abolitionists,  notably 
Parker  in  one  of  his  sermons,  indignantly  averred. 
His  reprobation  of  Webster's  course  was  as  deep 
as  that  of  the  more  fiery  Whittier,  whom  it  in 
spired  to  write  Ichabod,  or  of  the  philosophic 
Emerson,  when  it  drew  him  from  his  studious 
solitudes,  and  moved  him  to  declare,  in  a  public 
discourse  on  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  "Every 
drop  of  blood  in  this  man's  veins  has  eyes  that 
look  downward."  While  deploring  the  great 
statesman's  advocacy  of  that  law,  Longfellow's 
broad  charity  and  calm  equipoise  of  opinion  led 
him  to  judge  the  man  himself  more  as  posterity 
is  judging  him. 

That  Holmes  had  a  son  who  enlisted  in  our 
Civil  War  and  was  dangerously  wounded  is  a 
circumstance  that  has  been  kept  in  the  memory 
of  men  by  the  Autocrat's  narrative  of  his  Hunt 
for  the  Captain,  and  by  the  Captain's  subsequent 


430  MY  OWN   STORY 

career  as  an  eminent  jurist.  It  is  not  so  well 
remembered  that  Longfellow  likewise  gave  a  son 
to  his  country's  service  in  the  great  conflict 
against  slavery,  a  son  who  was  also  dangerously 
wounded  at  the  front,  and  whom  the  father  simi 
larly  hastened  to  seek  and  bring  home. 

VII 

Once  we  were  speaking  of  the  prices  paid  to 
the  best  writers  by  the  best  periodicals,  when 
Longfellow  remarked  that  he  could  never  get  over 
the  feeling  that  one  hundred  dollars  was  a  very 
large  sum  for  a  poem  of  perhaps  not  half  a  hun 
dred  lines.  I  said  it  did  not  seem  so  to  me,  even 
if  we  considered  merely  the  labor  that  went  into 
it,  let  alone  the  name  and  fame  of  the  author. 

"You  would  think  differently,"  he  said,  "if 
you  had  written  as  many  poems  for  three  and  five 
dollars  each  as  I  have,"  —  those  being  the  prices 
he  had  received  for  some  of  his  earlier  well-known 
pieces,  which  he  named.  The  immortal  Psalm  of 
Life  —  which,  with  the  marks  it  bears  of  an  im 
perfect  mastery  of  the  art  he  was  afterwards  to 
bring  to  such  perfection,  yet  breathes  the  inmost 
spirit  of  his  genius,  —  the  poem  that  may  almost 
be  said  to  have  established  his  reputation  —  was 
sold  for  three  or  five  dollars  (certainly  not  more 
than  five,  —  I  think  he  told  me  three)  to  the 


LONGFELLOW  431 

Knickerbocker  Magazine,  in  which  it  first  ap 
peared.  This  was  in  1838.  Through  the  agency 
of  his  versatile  friend,  Samuel  Ward,  in  New 
York,  he  was  enabled  in  a  few  years  to  command 
three  or  four  times  five  dollars  for  anything  he 
chose  to  write,  —  fifteen  or  twenty  dollars  being 
really  a  dazzling  price  for  a  poem  in  those  days. 

The  Hanging  of  the  Crane  was  disposed  of  to 
the  New  York  Ledger  for  an  exceptionally  large 
sum  ;  the  history  of  which  transaction  was  related 
to  me  by  Longfellow  about  the  time  it  took  place. 
The  poem  was  finished  in  December,  1873,  and 
sent  to  Ward  in  New  York,  who  received  it  with 
rapture,  and  wrote  that  he  thought  his  "  trotting 
friend  Bonner  "  would  pay  "  two  guineas  a  line  for 
it."  As  it  comprised  about  two  hundred  lines, 
this  meant  a  little  more  than  two  thousand  dol 
lars.  Mr.  Fields  advised  that  it  should  not  ap 
pear  in  any  periodical,  but  be  issued  at  once  in  a 
small  and  elegant  illustrated  volume.  Longfellow 
held  the  matter  in  consideration  for  a  month  or 
more,  then  consented  that  the  poem  should  be 
submitted  to  Bonner,  who  promptly  proposed  to 
pay  one  thousand  dollars  for  it,  —  about  five 
dollars  a  line.  Longfellow  thought  this  offer 
munificent  enough,  and  would  have  accepted  it 
unquestioningly  ;  but  Ward  demurred,  contend 
ing  that  such  a  poem  from  so  famous  an  author 


432  MY  OWN   STORY 

should  have  a  higher  value  for  the  Ledger,  —  a 
sheet  that  had  founded  its  enormous  success 
mainly  on  the  stories  of  Sylvanus  Cobb,  Jr.  Bon- 
ner  thereupon  consulted  his  lawyer,  a  man  of 
liberal  views,  who  said :  "  Ward  is  right.  Send 
Longfellow  a  check  for  three  thousand  dollars, 
and  give  Ward  an  honorarium  of  one  thousand 
for  his  mediation."  Bonner  was  himself  a  man 
of  the  most  liberal  disposition,  which  was  evinced 
not  only  in  practical  matters,  but  in  those  of  a 
more  personal  nature ;  as  when,  the  Ledger  having 
gradually  outgrown  the  Cobb,  Jr.,  style  of  story, 
instead  of  casting  out  with  business-like  indiffer 
ence  the  writer  who  had  been  so  useful  to  him, 
Bonner  retired  him  on  a  pension  of  four  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  which  Mr.  Cobb  enjoyed  in  his 
home  in  Norway,  Maine,  after  he  had  ceased  to 
write,  and  as  long  as  he  lived. 

Bonner  saw  the  force  of  his  lawyer's  sugges 
tion  ;  and  so  it  happened  that  The  Hanging  of 
the  Crane  appeared  in  the  Ledger  at  an  expense 
to  that  paper  of  four  thousand  dollars,  three 
fourths  of  which  went  to  Longfellow,  and  one 
fourth  to  Ward.  Considering  that  it  was  after 
wards  issued  by  the  poet's  publishers  in  a  sump 
tuous  holiday  edition  that  had  an  immense  sale, 
it  is  safe  to  say  that  this  poem  of  two  hundred 
lines  was,  for  its  length,  the  "best  paid "  piece  of 
purely  literary  work  ever  produced. 


LONGFELLOW  433 

VIII 

In  speaking  of  this  poem  I  am  reminded  of  a 
poetical  figure  in  it  that  may  have  been  suggested 
by  one  in  my  own  poem,  Service,  which  had  ap 
peared  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  some  time  before. 
I  had  written  :  — 

"  For  me  the  diamond  dawns  are  set 
In  rings  of  beauty." 

In  Longfellow's  lines  the  image  is  reversed,  the 
dazzling  dawn  becomes  the  smiling  close  of  day, 
and  the  sun 

"  Like  a  ruby  from  the  horizon's  ring 
Drops  down  into  the  night." 

Longfellow  was  of  course  unconscious  of  this 
adaptation,  —  if  indeed  it  was  an  adaptation,  and 
not  a  figure  that  had  arisen  independently  in  his 
own  mind ;  although  Service  was  a  poem  of  which 
he  had  spoken  to  me  of  having  read. 

His  imagination,  like  that  of  every  true  poet, 
was  the  haunt  of  suggestions  that  had  come  to 
him  often  from  unknown  sources  and  by  unre- 
membered  ways,  —  teeming  fancies  ready  to  start 
forth  in  the  light  and  take  place  and  shape  in 
the  page  they  were  needed  to  adorn.  Sometimes 
the  thought  that  first  appeared  in  one  form  reap 
peared  in  another ;  as  when  the  poet  wrote  in  his 
journal  (November  18,  1850),  "This  college  work 


434  MY  OWN   STORY 

is  like  a  great  hand  laid  on  all  the  strings  of  my 
lyre,  stopping  their  vibrations,"  and  afterwards,  in 
The  Golden  Legend,  — 

"  Time  has  laid  his  hand 
Upon  my  heart,  gently,  not  smiting  it, 
But  as  a  harper  lays  his  open  palm 
Upon  his  harp,  to  deaden  its  vibrations." 

I  do  not  know  that  anybody  had  used  this  image 
before ;  but  in  Excelsior  he  had  written,  — 

"  A  voice  falls  like  a  falling  star,"  — 

to  discover  later  (as  he  notes  in  his  diary)  that 
Brainerd  had  already  said  the  same  thing  of  the 
mocking-bird's  note,  — 

"  It  falls 

As  a  lost  star  falls  down  into  the  marsh." 

Wordsworth  has  in  one  of  his  odes,  — 

"  All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  miser  Time,"  — 

which  Longfellow,  as  he  notes  again  in  his  diary, 
had  never  read  when  in  his  Ode  to  a  Child  he 
wrote,  — 

"  The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser  Time." 

He  was  generally  fortunate  enough  to  detect 
these  echoes  or  resemblances  in  advance  of  the 
critics,  but  not  always  :  as  when  the  one  striking 
image,  in  the  one  memorable  poem  of  the  Bishop 
of  Chichester,  —  rendered  memorable  only  by  this 


LONGFELLOW  435 

circumstance,  —  reappeared  as  the  "  muffled 
drums  "  of  the  Psalm  of  Life,  and  brought  down 
upon  him  the  injurious  charge  of  plagiarism.  As 
he  himself  observes  in  his  journal,  "  One  cannot 
strike  a  spade  in  the  soil  of  Parnassus  without 
disturbing  the  bones  of  some  dead  poet." 

Here  again  I  am  reminded  of  a  thought  which 
I  once  adapted  from  him,  and  which  must  have 
persisted  in  my  mind  long  after  I  had  forgotten 
that  it  had  any  other  source  than  my  own  imagi 
nation.  Early  in  1858  I  wrote  the  following  win- 
t°r  piece,  which  I  print  here  to  illustrate  a  curious 
literary  circumstance  relating  to  two  names  of 
much  greater  interest  than  my  own  :  —  . 

When  evening  closes,  and  without 

I  hear  the  snow-storm  drive  and  sift, 
And  Boreas  plunge  with  many  a  shout 
Into  the  tree  and  through  the  drift, 
Methinks  that  up  and  down, 
With  his  merry,  mocking  clown, 
Goes  the  old  king  who  gave  away  his  crown. 

The  king  so  old  and  gray  ! 

Alas,  alas  the  day 

That  saw  him  part  his  golden  crown 
To  deck  fair  Summer's  forehead  gay 

And  Autumn's  tresses  brown  ! 

The  cruel  sisters  twain 

Have  robbed  him  of  his  train  ; 
And  now  all  night  he  laughs  and  raves, 
And  beats  his  breast  and  sings  wild  staves, 


436  MY  OWN   STORY 

And  scatters  his  white  hair  over  the  graves. 
A  mad  and  broken-hearted  Lear, 

He  roams  the  earth  with  crazed  brain  ; 
Ah,  would  the  gentle  Spring  were  here, 
The  sweet  Cordelia  of  the  year, 
To  soothe  his  bitter  pain ! 

Fondly  believing  this  to  be  original,  and  think 
ing  tolerably  well  of  it,  I  handed  it  to  Underwood 
for  The  Atlantic.  He  likewise  thought  well  of  it, 
and  took  it  to  Cambridge,  for  Lowell's  accept 
ance.  It  came  back  to  me  with  the  comment  that 
it  had  a  fault.  This  was  not  the  overworked 
and  worn-out  classic  Boreas,  which  certainly  had 
no  business  in  so  modern  a  composition,  and  which 
could  easily  have  been  changed  to  North  Wind. 
Nor  yet  was  it  the  bookish  "  methinks,"  in  the  use 
of  which  I  might  have  pleaded  the  example  of 
Hawthorne,  who  even  puts  it  into  the  colloquial 
speech  of  some  of  his  characters,  —  if  ever  the 
speech  of  Hawthorne's  characters  may  be  termed 
"colloquial."  As  for  the  feeble  inversions,  "fore 
head  gay,"  and  "tresses  brown,"  —where  the 
adjective  is  placed  after  the  noun  for  the  too  ob 
vious  convenience  of  the  rhythm  and  rhyme,  — 
they  were  indeed  blemishes,  which  I  was  to  have 
sense  and  conscience  enough  to  banish  altogether 
and  forever  from  my  later  verse,  along  with  all 
such  earmarks  of  the  conventional  poetic  diction  ; 
although  I  might  have  justified  them  by  adducing 


LONGFELLOW  437 

the  usage  of  poets  the  most  renowned.  But  the 
fault  that  condemned  my  winter  piece  was  none 
of  these.  It  was  the  worst  of  all  faults.  The 
leading  idea  of  the  poem  was  stolen  — "  Long- 
fellowniously  obtained,"  as  Underwood  laughingly 
said,  quoting,  I  think,  his  editor-in-chief.  I  im 
mediately  looked  up  the  Midnight  Mass  for  the 
Dying  Year,  and  was  dismayed  to  find  there  the 
image  I  had  so  shamelessly  plagiarized  :  — 

"  The  foolish,  fond  old  Year 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather 
Like  weak  despised  Lear ;  " 

the  comparison  being  carried  further  in  the  suc 
ceeding  stanzas. 

Of  course  I  did  not  print  the  poem  in  The 
Atlantic,  or  anywhere  else,  but  flung  it  aside  in 
wrath  and  humiliation,  and  hardly  ever  gave  it  a 
thought  afterwards,  until  I  was  reminded  of  it  by 
the  aforementioned  curious  circumstance,  to  the 
point  of  which  I  am  now  coming.  It  is  this :  in 
Lowell's  volume,  Under  the  Willows  and  Other 
Poems,  which  appeared  ten  years  later  (1868), 
the  title  poem  has  on  page  10  these  lines :  — 

"  And  Winter  suddenly,  like  crazy  Lear, 
Reels  back,  and  brings  the  dead  May  in  his  arms." 

Now  this  was  also  undoubtedly  an  unconscious 
appropriation  of  the  same  image  that  I  had  "  Long- 


438  MY  OWN   STORY 

fellowniously  obtained ; "  and  the  incomprehen 
sible  thing  about  it  is  that  Lowell  should  have 
picked  up,  and  pocketed,  and  afterwards  have 
stuck  into  his  poetical  shirt  front,  the  little  gem, 
the  ownership  of  which  he  had  detected  in  my 
more  expansive  setting.  The  only  explanation 
seems  to  be  that  he  had  forgotten  both  Long 
fellow's  original  and  my  imitation,  and  reproduced 
the  idea  as  innocently  as  poets  are  all  liable  to 
reproduce  ideas,  — as  he  himself  reproduced  a  line 
of  Shelley  in  an  earlier  part  of  the  same  poem 
(Under  the  Willows),  where  he  describes  the 
West  (west  wind)  — 

"  Shepherding  his  soft  droves  of  fleecy  cloud ;  "  — 

which  are  certainly  the  English  poet's  "white 
fleecy  clouds  "  over  again,  — 

"  Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind." 
IX 

Longfellow  was  accustomed  to  receive  all  sorts 
of  people,  some  of  whom  sought  him  out  for  the 
most  whimsical  reasons ;  like  the  English  visitors 
who  said  to  him  with  astounding  frankness,  "  As 
there  are  no  ruins  in  this  country  we  thought 
we  would  come  and  see  you."  The  old  colonial 
Craigie  mansion,  with  its  windows  commanding 
the  broad  valley  where  — 


LONGFELLOW  439 

"  The  flooded  Charles  .  .  . 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name," 

was  unquestionably,  both  from  its  earlier  and  later 
associations,  the  most  attractive  house  in  Cam 
bridge.  But  I  was  always  so  much  more  inter 
ested  in  the  man  I  went  to  see  there  than  in 
anything  else  in  or  about  it,  or  even  in  the  memo 
ries  of  the  great  Washington,  whose  historical 
headquarters  it  had  been,  that  I  never  really  saw 
it,  save  in  the  most  partial  and  casual  manner, 
until  one  afternoon,  when  some  ladies  sent  in  their 
cards  just  as  I  was  taking  leave.  They  came  with 
the  modest  request  that  they  might  be  shown  the 
house  and  "just  speak  with  Mr.  Longfellow  if  he 
was  n't  too  busy  to  see  them."  He  promptly 
gave  orders  that  they  should  be  admitted,  and 
turning  to  me,  said,  "  Stay,  and  help  me  entertain 
these  callers ; "  which  I  was  very  glad  to  do,  as 
it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  seeing,  with  him 
for  cicerone,  not  only  such  parts  of  the  house 
and  the  things  in  it  as  I  had  seen  before,  though 
never  so  advantageously,  but  other  parts,  with 
their  numerous  objects  of  interest.  Our  host, 
in  his  genial  way,  tried  to  palm  me  off  also  as 
an  "object  of  interest,"  but  without  distinguished 
success. 

Beginning  with  the  room  in  which  the  visitors 
found  us, — the  front  room  at  the  right  of  the 


440  MY   OWN   STORY 

entrance,  once  General  Washington's  official  head 
quarters,  but  in  later  years  the  poet's  study,  in 
which  so  many  of  his  famous  poems  had  been 
written,  —  he  had  some  simple  but  illuminating 
word  of  association  or  suggestion  for  every  object 
to  which  he  called  attention :  among  many  other 
precious  things,  perhaps  the  most  precious,  uni 
form  bindings  of  the  original  manuscripts  of  his 
works,  nearly  complete,  and  shelved  behind  glass, 
—  all  in  his  own  unvarying,  beautifully  round,  up 
right  hand,  the  most  of  them  in  pencil ;  Cole 
ridge's  inkstand,  always  in  sight  on  his  centre- 
table  ;  sand  of  the  desert  in  an  hourglass  (subject 
of  his  well-known  poem);  in  the  drawing-room  an 
exquisitely  carved  agate  cup,  the  work  of  Benve- 
nuto  Cellini,  which  had  once  belonged  to  the  poet 
Rogers  ;  everywhere  portraits  and  pictures,  among 
these  Buchanan  Read's  painting  of  Longfellow's 
Daughters,  which  was  then  well  known  to  the 
public  through  photographic  copies,  and  which, 
by  an  ambiguity  in  the  grouping,  had  given  rise 
to  the  absurd  story  that  one  of  Longfellow's  chil 
dren  had  no  arms.  Regarding  this  monstrous 
fable  he  said :  "  My  friend  Lowell  once  heard  a 
loud-talking  woman  expatiating  upon  it  in  an  omni 
bus  full  of  passengers,  and  took  occasion  to  cor 
rect  the  popular  error,  saying  that  he  knew  the 
family,  and  that  he  could  vouch  for  each  of  the 


LONGFELLOW  441 

children  having  a  good  pair  of  arms.  The  woman 
retorted,  '  I  have  it  on  the  best  authority ! '  and 
that  settled  it." 

He  had  a  fund  of  quiet  humor  in  relating  tradi 
tions  connected  with  the  old  house ;  one  of  which 
commemorated  an  occasion  when  Washington  was 
said  to  have  indulged  in  the  laughter  so  rare  with 
him.  It  was  when  General  Putnam  brought  to 
headquarters  an  old  woman  taken  as  a  spy,  whom 
he  carried,  reluctant  and  struggling,  on  his  back 
into  the  house,  —  a  sight  which  proved  too  much 
for  the  gravity  even  of  the  Father  of  his  Country. 
After  the  ladies  were  gone  I  asked  Mr.  Longfel 
low  if  such  visits  were  not  scmetimes  a  bore  to 
him,  "Yes,"  he  said,  "if  the  comers  are  preten 
tious  or  shallow-minded ;  then  I  make  as  quick 
work  with  them  as  courtesy  will  allow.  But 
these  were  sincere  persons,  and  I  am  glad  to  have 
afforded  them  a  pleasure  which  was  evidently  so 
much  to  them,  and  which  they  will  remember  all 
their  lives." 

"  And  the  memory  of  which  they  will  transmit 
to  their  children,"  I  could  not  help  adding. 


His  conversation  was  simple  and  easy,  and  often 
enlivened  by  a  genial  pleasantry,  to  me  more 
welcome  than  the  wit  that  keeps  the  listener  too 


442  MY   OWN    STORY 

much  alert.  I  never  heard  him  make  a  pun.  And 
never,  in  my  presence,  did  there  fall  from  his  lips 
an  expression  that  had  in  it  any  flavor  of  slang, 
except  on  one  occasion.  At  the  time  when  the 
Nineteenth  Century  magazine  was  launched,  we 
were  discussing  Tennyson's  sonnet,  which  ap 
peared,  a  proud  figure-head,  on  the  prow  of  the 
first  number.  I  remarked  that  it  had  one  particu 
larly  expressive  line,  — 

"  Now  in  this  roaring  moon 
Of  daffodil  and  crocus." 

Longfellow's  face  lighted  up,  as  he  took  a  stride 
across  his  hearth,  repeated  the  words,  and  stop 
ping  before  me,  exclaimed,  "  It  is  a  fine  thing  to 
have  one  strong  line  go  ripping  through  a  son 
net  ! " 

It  has  been  said,  by  one  who  had  exceptional 
opportunities  for  knowing  him,  that  Longfellow 
seldom  if  ever  mentioned  his  distinguished  contem 
poraries,  either  to  criticise  or  commend.  This  does 
not  accord  with  my  recollection  of  the  various 
conversations  I  had  with  him.  Rarely  indeed 
did  a  word  of  disapproval  fall  from  those  gracious 
lips ;  but  he  was  by  no  means  reticent  or  luke 
warm  when  there  was  occasion  for  praise.  I  have 
already  quoted  his  comments  on  Emerson  and 
Whittier,  in  connection  with  the  Ichabod  incident. 
He  once  spoke  freely  of  Emerson's  faulty  ear, 


LONGFELLOW  443 

and  said  that  in  at  least  one  instance  Emerson 
rivaled  Whittier  in  the  badness  of  his  rhymes,  — 

"  Who  bides  at  home,  nor  looks  abroad, 
Carries  the  eagles,  and  masters  the  sword." 

But  then  he  went  on  to  speak  of  The  Snow-Storm 
as  a  perfect  gem  of  blank  verse,  citing  the  de 
scription  of  the  housemates  gathered  — 

"  Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm"  — 

and  pronouncing  the  last  to  be  one  of  the  most 
beautifully  suggestive  lines  written  by  any  modern 
poet. 

Bayard  Taylor's  feat,  reported  at  the  time,  of 
writing  in  a  single  night,  immediately  upon  the 
arrival  of  the  book  in  America,  a  review  of  Victor 
Hugo's  La  Legende  des  Siecles,  giving  metrical 
translations  of  some  of  the  poems,  —  all  remark 
ably  well  done,  and  occupying  a  page  or  two  (I 
have  forgotten  just  how  much  space,  and  am  afraid 
to  say  two  or  three  pages)  in  the  next  morning's 
Tribune,  —  this  he  pronounced  an  achievement  of 
which  probably  no  other  man  in  America  would 
have  been  capable.  He  expressed  great  admira 
tion  for  Taylor's  varied  gifts,  and  remarked, 
"  How  narrowly  he  escapes  being  a  great  poet !  " 
adding  that  he  had  facility,  rhetoric,  feeling,  a 
sense  of  beauty  and  melody,  yet  lacked  the  last 
"indefinable  touch." 


444  MY   OWN   STORY 

XI 

His  ways  with  young  children  were  exceedingly 
gracious  and  winning.  My  own  girls  (then  very 
young  indeed)  had  been  kept  out  of  sight  when 
ever  he  called,  until  one  day,  hearing  their  laugh 
ter  in  the  hall,  he  asked  to  see  them.  Overawed 
by  his  gray  hair  and  beard  and  venerable  aspect, 
but  attracted  by  his  smile,  they  approached  with 
bashful  pleasure  as  he  held  out  his  arms  to  them  ; 
when  he  broke  down  all  barriers  by  saying,  — 

"  Where  are  your  dolls  ?  I  want  you  to  show 
me  your  dolls  !  Not  the  fine  ones  you  keep  for 
company,  but  those  you  love  best  and  play  with 
every  day." 

Before  the  mother  could  interfere,  they  had 
taken  him  at  his  word,  and  brought  the  shabby 
little  favorites  with  battered  noses,  and  were 
eagerly  telling  him  their  names  and  histories, 
while  he  questioned  them  with  an  interest  that 
wholly  won  their  childish  hearts.  Notwithstand 
ing  its  humorous  and  homely  aspect,  —  or  partly 
perhaps  on  account  of  it,  —  the  scene  suggested 
a  more  beautiful  and  human  picture  of  the  often 
treated  subject,  "  Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,"  than  any  I  ever  beheld. 

On  another  occasion  I  took  the  elder  of  the 
little  girls  to  see  him,  along  with  some  Western 


LONGFELLOW  445 

relatives,  who  thought  their  visit  to  the  East 
would  miss  its  crowning  satisfaction  if  they  should 
go  back  without  seeing  Longfellow.  We  found 
other  company  at  the  house,  and  the  conversation 
had  become  so  animated  that  the  presence  of  the 
child  was  forgotten  by  everybody  except  our  host. 
Suddenly  he  arose  with  a  smile,  saying,  "  I  can't 
bear  that  little  Grace  should  n't  also  be  enter 
tained  ! "  and  going  into  the  hall,  he  set  the 
musical  clock  to  playing  its  tunes  for  her,  while 
her  elders  talked. 

He  sometimes  brought  to  see  me  his  intimate 
and  almost  lifelong  friend,  Professor  George  W. 
Greene,  the  historian,  of  Greenwich,  R.  I.  ;  and 
at  one  of  their  visits  our  Windsor,  then  a  boy  of 
thirteen,  took  us  out  on  the  lake  in  his  boat. 
Professor  Greene,  who  was  in  feeble  health, 
wished  to  pull  an  oar;  Windsor,  full  of  health 
and  spirits,  pulled  the  other,  and  pulled  too  hard 
for  him.  This  he  continued  to  do,  notwithstand 
ing  my  remonstrance,  —  being  slow  to  realize 
how  much  it  was  needful  that  he  should  moderate 
his  stroke,  —  when  Mr.  Longfellow  said,  - 

"  Let  him  row  his  own  way !  He  enjoys  it ;  and 
we  must  n't  interfere  with  a  boy's  happiness.  It 
makes  no  difference  to  us  whether  we  go  forward 
or  only  circle  round  and  round."  An  incident 
in  itself  slight,  but  illustrative  of  his  thoughtful 
regard  for  the  happiness  of  the  young. 


446  MY  OWN   STORY 

XII 

It  was  while  walking  alone  with  me  once  on  the 
shore  of  that  lake  (Arlington  Lake,  or  Spy  Pond), 
that  Mr.  Longfellow,  after  stopping  to  gaze  for 
some  moments  in  silence  at  the  island  and  the 
distant  banks,  overleaned  by  willows  and  water- 
maples,  said  to  me,  — 

"  Why  have  you  never  put  this  lake  into  a 
poem  ? " 

I  said  I  supposed  it  was  because  I  had  it  in 
view  every  day.  "  When  I  get  away  from  it,  then 
very  likely  my  imagination  will  come  back  to  it, 
and  I  may  write  something  about  it." 

"Don't  wait  for  that,"  he  replied;  "do  it 
now  ! " 

I  have  always  regretted  that  I  did  not  then  and 
there  enter  into  an  agreement  with  him  that  we 
should  each  write  a  poem  on  the  subject.  What 
a  precious  companion  piece  we  might  then  have 
had  to  his  Cadenabbia  and  Songo  River !  I  can 
almost  imagine  these  lines,  inspired  by  Lake 
Como,  to  have  been  breathed  by  his  Muse  that 
very  afternoon,  as  we  stood  gazing  from  our 
shore :  — 

"  Sweet  vision  !  do  not  fade  away  ; 

Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 
Into  itself  the  summer  day, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake  !  " 


LONGFELLOW  447 

This  was  in  September.  I  waited  until  the  glory 
of  the  month  of  May  was  on  the  wooded  shores 
and  the  reflecting  water,  then,  in  memory  of  his 
inspiring  suggestion,  I  wrote  Menotomy  Lake. 

I  cannot  forbear  quoting  here  the  last  letter  I 
ever  received  from  him,  it  is  so  characteristic  of 
the  kindness  of  heart  that  prompted  him,  even  in 
illness,  to  pen  with  his  own  hand  a  brief  message 
that  he  knew  would  carry  happiness  to  a  friend. 
The  same  sheet  bore  the  printed  announcement 
which  his  family  were  then  sending  to  his  corre 
spondents  :  "  On  account  of  illness,  Mr.  Longfellow 
finds  it  impossible  to  answer  any  letters  at  pre 
sent  ; "  a  circumstance  that  rendered  all  the  more 
touching  his  voluntary  note  to  me.  And  it  be 
came  still  more  sacredly  precious  when  it  proved, 
not  only  the  last  to  me,  but  one  of  the  last  letters 
he  ever  wrote.  The  poem  referred  to  was  Three 
Worlds. 

CAMBRIDGE,  Dec.  16,  1881. 

DEAR  MR.  TROWBRIDGE,  —  What  a  beautiful 
poem  is  this  of  yours  in  the  January  Atlantic  ! 

I  have  read  it  with  delight,  and  cannot  help 
writing  a  line  to  say  so. 

Faithfully  yours, 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


448  MY   OWN   STORY 

XIII 

In  him  passed  the  most  purely  poetical  of  the 
entire  group  of  our  early  singers.  Bryant,  jour 
nalist  and  politician,  would  now  be  forgotten  as  a 
poet  but  for  Thanatopsis,  the  lines  To  a  Water 
fowl,  and  one  or  two  other  pieces.  The  reputa 
tion  of  Foe  —  a  man  of  genius,  if  ever  there  was 
one,  but  an  adventurer,  and  also  something  of  a 
charlatan  —  likewise  rests  upon  three  or  four 
poems,  one  might  almost  say  on  one  or  two. 
Whittier,  prophet  and  reformer,  had  extraordinary 
poetic  sensitiveness  and  a  winning  spirituality, 
but  (certainly  until  his  later  years)  he  was  too 
much  an  improvisatore  to  regard  uniform  excel 
lence  in  his  work.  Whitman  brought  sheaves  in 
abundance,  but  too  often  with  stubble  plucked  up 
by  the  roots  and  the  soil  adhering.  Holmes  was 
a  wit  and  a  man  of  science ;  Lowell,  satirist,  es 
sayist,  diplomatist,  and  assuredly  a  poet,  but  one 
whose  affluence  of  fancy  and  largeness  of  cul 
ture  did  not  insure  him  always  against  incongru- 
ousness  of  metaphor  and  roughness  of  utterance  ; 
Emerson,  pursuing  ever  the  loftiest  ideals,  yet  a 
transcendent  master  of  crystalline  prose  rather 
than  of  rhythmical  harmonies.  Longfellow  was 
not  the  greatest  of  the  group.  He  was  neither 
brilliant  nor  versatile  nor  intense  ;  great  power 


\_Autograph  lines  front  "  Three  Worlds"] 


LONGFELLOW  449 

and  great  passion  were  not  among  his  gifts ;  the 
charm  of  his  verse  is  more  in  sentiment  and 
atmosphere  than  in  any  distinctively  vigorous  in 
tellectual  quality.  But  he  was  always  the  poet, 
devoted  to  the  poet's  ultimate  aims,  and,  amid  all 
the  distractions  of  college  work  or  other  duties 
and  interests,  breathing  the  cool  airs  of  the  Par 
nassian  groves. 

Every  great  reputation  is  certain  to  be  dimmed 
by  time,  and  to  suffer  from  comparison  with  daz 
zling  new  stars,  even  with  meteors  that  flash 
transitorily  across  the  sky.  Longfellow  is  no 
exception  to  the  rule  ;  it  has  even  become  a  fash 
ion  to  decry  his  poetry  as  commonplace.  He  did 
not  experiment  in  many  metres,  nor  startle  us 
with  audacities,  nor  witch  the  world  with  haunt 
ing  melodies.  Commonplace  his  poetry  undoubt 
edly  is,  inasmuch  as  it  has  entered  into  our  litera 
ture  and  into  our  lives,  and  has  so  ceased  to  be  a 
novelty,  —  commonplace  too,  possibly,  here  and 
there,  in  a  more  depreciatory  sense.  But,  when 
all  admissions  are  made,  may  we  not  ask  —  pass 
ing  over  without  mention  his  more  important  pro 
ductions,  those  on  which  his  fame  is  mainly  based 
—  is  it  not  pertinent  to  inquire  what  writers  of 
to-day,  on  either  side  of  the  sea,  are  blending 
thought  and  feeling  in  such  forms  of  beauty  as 
The  Two  Angels,  The  Bridge,  The  Arsenal  at 


4So  MY  OWN   STORY 

Springfield,  The  Birds  of  Killingworth,  —  and  a 
long  list  beside  of  poems  as  full  of  a  wise,  sweet 
humanity  and  as  perfect  in  their  art  ? 

His  work,  more  than  most  men's,  was  the  out 
growth  of  his  character ;  and  the  same  might 
almost  be  said  of  the  circumstances  of  his  life, 
which  seemed  the  natural  branching  and  foliage 
of  the  genius  they  were  to  support  and  enfold. 
But  for  the  one  overwhelming  catastrophe  of  his 
home  (not  forgetting  the  earlier  intimate  afflic 
tion),  I  know  of  no  other  so  altogether  happy  and 
harmonious  career.  He  lived  long  in  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  fullness  of  his  fame,  and  died  the 
most  widely  read  and  best  beloved  poet  of  the 
English  tongue. 

No  more  fitting,  no  more  touching  tribute  can 
be  paid  to  him  than  in  the  words  of  his  most  illus 
trious  contemporary,  who,  in  his  own  darkening 
years,  when  his  memory  was  in  eclipse,  and  those 
sky-piercing  faculties  showed  like  shattered  peaks 
amid  clouds,  having  stood  long  by  the  open  coffin 
of  his  friend,  and  gazed  his  last  upon  the  features 
death  had  stilled,  murmured  gently,  "  I  do  not 
remember  his  name,  but  he  was  a  beautiful  soul." 

A  beautiful  soul  in  very  truth  he  was. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CLOSING    NUMBERS 


WHAT  I  have  thus  far  written  of  my  life  seems 
not  much  more  than  shaping  a  path  through  the 
woodland,  broadly  scoring  now  and  then  a  way- 
mark  and  opening  up  a  vista,  but  leaving  on 
either  side  aisles  of  light  and  deeps  of  shade 
unsurmised,  and  affording  few  glimpses  of  the 
boundless  blue  above.  When  the  work  has  gone 
irrevocably  out  of  my  hands,  I  shall  doubtless  be 
better  able  than  I  am  now  to  determine  how  much 
more,  or  how  much  less,  should  have  been  told. 

I  had  it  in  mind  to  write  more  fully  of  some 
worthies  whom  I  have  barely  mentioned,  and 
to  fill  out  a  page  here  and  there  with  notes 
upon  others  whom  I  have  not  found  it  conven 
ient  to  mention  at  all;  particularly  to  call  up 
again  a  few  of  the  stars  that  within  my  recollec 
tion  have  shone  above  the  charmed  horizon  of 
the  footlights :  the  great  contralto,  Alboni,  full- 
orbed,  refulgent,  who  appeared  in  Boston  con 
certs  two  years  after  Jenny  Lind,  and  remains 


452  MY   OWN    STORY 

to  me  a  hardly  less  glorious  memory  than  that 
peerless  queen  of  song;  the  lithe,  electric  Ra 
chel  and  the  truly  royal  Ristori,  both  of  whom  I 
saw  in  Paris  now  almost  fifty  years  ago ;  our  own 
Charlotte  Cushman,  an  actress  of  exceptional 
force  and  talent,  the  ideal  Meg  Merrilies  (barring 
some  harsh  stage  mannerisms),  full  of  pathetic 
dignity  as  Queen  Katharine,  but  almost  too  virile 
and  unlovely  a  Lady  Macbeth,  and  still  less  fitted 
for  Rosalind,  or  any  character  endowed  with 
delicacy  and  charm  ;  the  elder  Booth,  who  lacked 
the  well-modulated  art  of  his  eminent  son  Ed 
win,  yet  possessed  more  native  genius,  —  small  of 
stature,  but  all  nerve  and  fire,  —  who  could  enact 
Richard  III.  to  the  wild  joy  of  the  groundlings, 
or  lago  to  the  calm  satisfaction  of  the  judicious ; 
Forrest,  whose  robustiousness  in  rending  a  pas 
sion  made  one  too  often  forget  his  really  great 
qualities  (conspicuous  in  King  Lear),  and  his 
admirable  elocution  (noticeable  even  in  a  part  so 
wholly  unsuited  to  him  as  Hamlet) ;  last,  but  in 
power  foremost  of  all  the  histrionic  personages, 
early  or  late,  American  or  foreign,  whom  I  have 
had  the  good  fortune  to  see,  —  the  Italian  whose 
superb  personality  united  the  most  consummate 
art  with  the  most  prodigious  energy,  —  Tommaso 
Salvini.  Nor,  since  I  name  these,  should  I  omit 
from  the  list  Dickens  as  a  personator  of  his  own 


CLOSING   NUMBERS  453 

creations,  —  Micawber,  the  Wellers,  Buzf uz,  and 
the  rest,  —  whose  Boston  readings  in  1867  I  dis 
tinctly  recall ;  a  brisk  little  man  most  exquisitely 
attired,  with  a  button-hole  rose,  glittering  studs 
and  rings,  a  heavy  fob-chain  festooning  his  low- 
cut  waistcoat  ;  a  bald  crown,  and  a  portentous 
port-wine  complexion,  which  a  maroon-colored 
screen,  always  in  place  behind  him  on  the  plat 
form,  and  a  maroon-colored  desk  in  front,  were 
artfully  designed  to  relieve ;  a  theatrical  manner, 
a  worn-out  actor's  voice,  and  many  false  intona 
tions  (the  rising  inflection  being  much  too  insist 
ent),  but  with  marvelously  mobile  features,  an 
animation  of  style  and  a  contagious  sense  of  his 
own  fun  which  would  have  redeemed  worse  faults. 

II 

Of  other  influences  than  those  I  have  desig 
nated,  which  have  affected  decisively  my  views  of 
life,  I  ought  to  mention,  more  particularly  than  I 
have  yet  done,  Darwin's  great  work  on  the  Origin 
of  Species.  Singularly  enough,  I  was  first  made 
acquainted  with  it  by  its  most  able  and  famous, 
most  learned  and  persistent  assailant.  Shortly 
after  the  book  appeared  I  heard  Agassiz  restate 
its  main  facts  and  arguments  so  fairly,  so  fully,  so 
convincingly,  that  although  he  ended  by  declar 
ing,  "  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it ! "  I  was  left 


454  MY  OWN   STORY 

confronted  by  the  substantial  truth  of  what,  to  my 
apprehension,  all  the  reasons  he  proceeded  to 
array  against  it  failed  to  overthrow.  Not  that  I 
ever  accepted  the  unmodified  Darwinian  doctrine 
in  all  its  implications.  Within  its  province  it 
threw  vivid  light  upon  many  things,  but  it  cast 
no  ray  into  the  Infinite  Beyond. 

Counterbalancing  that  influence  was  one  yet 
more  potent,  of  which  I  must  also  make  mention, 
if  only  in  briefest  terms. 

Fully  half  a  century  ago  I  became  familiar 
with  the  phenomena  of  spiritualism,  and  had  in 
my  early  and  late  investigations  of  them  some 
quite  astounding  experiences,  which  no  argu 
ments  based  upon  "jugglery,"  "hypnotism," 
"  thought-transference,"  "  subliminal  conscious 
ness,"  or  anything  of  that  sort,  under  whatever 
guise,  could  ever  explain  away.  I  was  convinced 
that,  under  all  the  frauds  and  foibles  that  could 
be  charged  against  mediums  and  their  dupes, 
there  were  living  truths,  —  that  man  has  spirit-dis 
cerning  powers,  and  that  those  who  have  embarked 
before  us  on  the  Unknown  may  send  back  to  us 
signals  more  or  less  intelligible  through  the  mists 
that  have  closed  in  upon  their  voyage.  I  found 
in  the  communications  so  much  that  was  confused 
and  misleading  that  I  gradually  ceased  to  consult 
them  after  I  had  become  fully  satisfied  as  to  their 


CLOSING  NUMBERS  455 

source ;  but  the  faith,  thus  established,  has  never 
faltered ;  and  to  it  I  have  owed,  especially  in 
times  of  bereavement,  many  consolations.  Even 
though  the  identity  of  the  voices  may  sometimes 
rest  in  doubt,  much  yet  remains.  The  assurance 
remains,  not  new  indeed,  but  once  more  vitally 
renewed,  that  the  mind  has  occult  faculties  rarely 
developed  in  this  state  of  existence,  which  pre 
suppose  a  more  ethereal  condition  fitted  for  their 
unfolding,  as  the  submerged  bud  of  the  water-lily, 
struggling  upward  from  the  ooze,  and  groping 
dimly  through  the  grosser  element,  is  a  prophecy 
of  the  light  and  air  in  which  it  is  to  open  and 
flower. 

Ill 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  state  that  I  have  endeav 
ored  always  to  do  the  duties  of  a  private  citizen 
in  the  humblest  capacity,  on  school  committees, 
on  juries,  as  public  library  trustee,  and  in  further 
ing  objects  of  utility  and  charity.  My  tempera 
ment  and  my  tastes  have  kept  me  out  of  public 
life,  but  since  the  nomination  of  Fremont  for  the 
presidency  I  have  been  deeply  interested  in  na 
tional  politics,  as  a  liberal  and  an  optimist,  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  those  words.  I  have  had  a  very 
pleasant  experience  of  public  audiences  in  lectur 
ing  and  in  reading  from  my  own  works. 


456  MY   OWN    STORY 

I  account  it  a  specially  good  fortune  that  I 
have  been  able  to  meet  every  important  business 
engagement  I  ever  made,  with  a  single  exception. 
In  all  my  dealings  with  publishers  and  editors  I 
have  never  once  failed  to  deliver,  promptly  as 
promised,  the  manuscript  of  a  book,  an  editorial, 
or  magazine  article,  or  chapter  of  a  serial  story  I 
may  have  been  writing,  with  the  printers  counting 
on  my  weekly  or  monthly  copy  ;  and  I  have  been 
equally  favored  in  keeping  my  other  appointments 
with  the  exception  mentioned,  —  a  Western  lec 
turing  tour,  which  in  quite  recent  years  I  was 
compelled  by  illness  to  abandon  when  I  was  ac 
tually  on  my  way  to  fill  the  dates  booked  for  me. 
It  would  be  baseness  on  my  part  to  make  a  state 
ment  of  this  sort  in  any  boastfulness  of  spirit ;  I 
give  it,  on  the  contrary,  simply  as  a  part  of  my 
record,  and  with  devout  thankfulness  that  I  have 
been  enabled  thus  to  keep  my  mind  clear  from 
the  clouds  of  unmet  obligations. 

IV 

Of  what  the  world  calls  "  honors  "  I  have  none 
I  care  to  speak  of  ;  although,  also  as  a  matter 
of  record,  I  may  mention  the  honorary  degree  of 
"A.  M."  received  from  Dartmouth  College,  and 
the  large  silver  medal  of  the  Massachusetts  Hu 
mane  Society,  conferred  for  "  humane  exertions  " 


CLOSING  NUMBERS  457 

in  saving  a  life  in  circumstances  of  difficulty  and 
danger  (in  January,  1872)  :  circumstances  which 
were  in  fact  such  that  a  stalwart  spectator  —  who 
stood  in  an  excited  but  helpless  crowd  on  the 
shore  of  Mystic  Lake,  and  saw  me  go  out  alone  on 
treacherous  ice,  regardless  of  wild  warning  cries, 
with  no  support  but  two  fragments  of  board  I  had 
hurriedly  torn  from  a  fence,  and  drag  a  drowning 
boy  out  of  the  water,  in  which  I  was  myself  partly 
submerged  by  the  sinking  of  the  ice  under  one 
of  my  boards  —  exclaimed  vehemently,  as  I 
drippingly  regained  the  bank  with  the  boy,  "I 
would  n't  have  done  that,  not  for  ten  million  dol 
lars  !  "  The  medal,  or  rather  the  act  it  was  de 
signed  to  commemorate,  I  valued  as  attesting 
qualities  the  quietest  life  may  conceal,  even  from 
their  possessor ;  nor  was  my  satisfaction  in  it 
disturbed  by  a  neighboring  farmer's  saying  that 
the  boy  "  was  the  worst  melon  thief  in  town,  and 
I  might  as  well  have  let  him  drown."  It  was  this 
incident  that  suggested  my  story  of  The  Silver 
Medal,  written  a  few  years  later. 

V 

I  still  keep  my  Pleasant  Street  home  in  Arling 
ton,  to  which  it  is  always  a  gratification  to  re 
turn,  after  absences  long  or  short,  —  the  longer 
the  absence  the  greater  the  gratification.  The 


458  MY   OWN   STORY 

longest  absence  was  when  I  spent  three  years 
abroad  with  my  young  family  (from  1888  to 
1891),  chiefly  in  Italy,  Switzerland,  Germany,  and 
France,  —  an  experience  of  interest  and  benefit 
to  us  all,  especially  to  the  two  older  children, 
then  at  the  susceptible  period  of  early  girlhood, 
when  the  art  of  the  masters,  the  foreign  lan 
guages  heard  spoken,  and  the  people  and  scenes 
observed,  are  instinctively  absorbed. 

I  was  one  of  the  first  to  discover  the  advan 
tages  of  Kennebunkport  (Maine)  as  a  seaside 
resort ;  and  after  spending  parts  of  a  number  of 
summers  there,  in  1887  I  built  a  house  of  my  own 
on  Cape  Arundel,  where  I  generally  manage  to 
pass  with  some  members  of  my  family  a  few  quiet 
weeks  each  season  by  the  surge-buffeted  ledges 
that  divide  Wells  Bay  from  the  open  Atlantic. 

VI 

The  friend  who  did  more  than  any  one  else 
to  induce  me  to  write  these  recollections  —  who 
has  since  passed  to  where,  "  beyond  these  voices, 
there  is  peace"  —thought  I  ought  to  insist  upon 
a  point  which  he  deemed  somewhat  exceptional  in 
the  experience  of  imaginative  writers.  Not  only 
can  few  who  will  tell  their  stories  look  back  so  far, 
but  fewer  still  have  from  the  beginning  of  their 
careers  relied  for  a  subsistence  upon  their  pens. 


CLOSING  NUMBERS  459 

Nearly  every  successful  writer  I  know  has  had 
in  his  youth  or  in  time  of  need  an  -independent 
income,  or  a  public  office,  or  an  editorship,  or 
some  other  regular  occupation  to  relieve  him 
from  the  constant  necessity  of  harrowing  his  wits 
for  daily  bread.  This  is  as  it  should  be.  I  should 
not  dare,  even  in  these  more  propitious  days,  to 
give  any  young  man  such  advice  as  kind  old 
Major  Noah  gave  to  me.  To  the  most  actively 
creative  mind  intervals  of  rest  are  required ;  and 
it  is  then  a  wholesome  change  to  turn  from  the 
task  of  invention  to  the  routine  of  a  profession,  or 
to  the  light  labor  of  reviewing,  or  of  editing  the 
writings  of  others.  Reviewing  I  have  done  very 
little  of,  because  I  never  felt  that  I  had  a  right  to 
sit  in  hasty  judgment  upon  books ;  and  with  the 
exception  of  two  brief  periods  of  which  I  have 
made  mention,  I  have  held  no  editorial  office. 
From  my  twentieth  year  I  have  relied  almost 
solely  upon  my  pen  for  support.  It  might  have 
been  better  otherwise  —  who  can  tell  ?  Not  that 
I  would  ever  have  divorced  myself  from  the 
Muse ;  but  I  would  have  kept  her  as  the  mistress 
of  the  manage,  not  the  maid.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  owe  much  even  of  my  happiness  to  the  neces 
sity  of  literary  labor.  A  natural  indolence  would 
often  have  seduced  me  to  postpone  and  avoid 
that  which,  even  when  entered  upon  reluctantly, 
has  been  to  me  joy  and  health. 


460  MY   OWN    STORY 

Another  question  rises  here,  which  has  often 
risen  in  my  mind  before,  as  to  what  would  have 
been  the  effect  upon  my  life  if  I  could  have 
enjoyed  the  advantages,  which  I  envied  in  others, 
of  a  university  education,  and  (what  would  have 
been  of  greater  value  still)  of  early  association 
with  people  of  gifts  and  culture.  The  academic 
training  would  undoubtedly  have  saved  me  from 
much  poor  'prentice  work  in  story  writing,  and 
have  afforded  me  a  better  preparation  for  a  later 
start.  But  I  doubt  not  all  was  as  it  should 
have  been  for  my  daily  needs  and  ultimate  good. 
Instead  of  accusing  my  fate,  I  breathe  evermore  a 
prayer  of  thankfulness  for  the  blessings  that  have 
fallen  to  my  share.  I  have  had,  not  an  adven 
turous,  nor  a  greatly  varied,  but  on  the  whole  a 
happy  course,  and  am  now  near  its  close.  At  the 
middle  milestone  between  threescore  and  ten  and 
fourscore,  when  my  "way  of  life"  should  long 
since  (adjudged  by  the  average  human  experi 
ence)  have  "  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf," 
I  am  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  tolerably  green  old  age. 
I  have  known  the  sharpest  afflictions,  but  "  though 
much  is  taken  "  how  much  more  "  abides  "  !  I 
still  carry  my  five  feet  eight  inches  and  my 
twelve  stone  avoirdupois  with  easy  uprightness, 
and  am  active  on  my  feet,  if  no  longer  alert  to 
mount  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time  or  to  cut  3's 


CLOSING  NUMBERS  461 

and  8's  on  the  ice.  I  have  always  enjoyed  mixing 
a  moderate  amount  of  manual  labor  with  my  more 
sedentary  pursuits,  and  continue  to  find  pleasure 
and  benefit  in  trimming  a  border,  pushing  a  lawn- 
mower,  or  pruning  a  vine. 

That  something  of  the  freshness  of  dawn  is 
preserved  for  me  in  the  evening  of  my  days,  I 
believe  that  I  owe  primarily  to  a  sound  though 
delicate  constitution ;  to  an  instinctive,  never 
ascetic  obedience  to  the  laws  of  health ;  and, 
above  all,  to  a  mind  open  to  the  "beauty  and 
wonder  "  of  the  existence  in  which  we  are  "  em 
bosomed."  Add  to  this  a  philosophy  of  fortitude 
and  renunciation  which  has  enabled  me  to  receive 
the  rebuffs  of  fortune  "  with  a  heart  for  every 
fate,"  and  which  I  have  endeavored  to  carry  into 
all  the  concerns  of  life ;  although  I  have  been  less 
able  to  live  up  to  it  (I  grieve  to  record)  at  times 
of  petty  provocation  than  in  crises  of  greater  mo 
ment  :  a  minor  annoyance  may  perchance  move 
me,  while  the  weighty  occasion  settles  me  quietly 
to  some  unyielding  substratum  of  my  nature.  I 
have  often  questioned  why,  with  all  my  infirmi 
ties  of  will  and  passion,  I  have  not  more  than 
once  gone  to  wreck  on  this  perilous  voyage  of 
time.  But  headstrong  impulse  and  impetuosity 
of  temper  are  not,  after  all,  bad  fellows  for  the 
crew,  as  long  as  the  Captain  keeps  the  deck. 


462  MY  OWN   STORY 

VII 

I  made  my  fiftieth  birthday  the  occasion  of 
an  autobiographic  poem,  which  I  find  sums  up 
my  experience  of  life  even  better  at  seventy-five 
than  it  did  at  twoscore  and  ten.  This  is  my 
apology  for  citing  from  it  these  stanzas  in  this 
place :  — 

Riches  I  never  sought  and  have  not  found, 
And  Fame  has  passed  me  with  averted  eye ; 

In  creeks  and  bays  my  quiet  voyage  is  bound, 
While  the  great  world  without  goes  surging  by. 

No  withering  envy  of  another's  lot, 
Nor  nightmare  of  contention,  plagues  my  rest ; 

For  me  alike  what  is  and  what  is  not, 

Both  what  I  have  and  what  I  lack,  are  best. 

A  flower  more  sacred  than  far-seen  success 

Perfumes  my  solitary  path  ;  I  find 
Sweet  compensation  in  my  humbleness, 

And  reap  the  harvest  of  a  tranquil  mind. 

I  keep  some  portion  of  my  early  dream  ; 

Brokenly  bright,  like  moonbeams  on  a  river, 
It  lights  my  life,  a  far  elusive  gleam, 

Moves  as  I  move,  and  leads  me  on  forever. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


ABERCROMBIE,  DR.  JOHN,  his 
Intellectual  Powers  of  Man, 
46. 

Academy,  Brockport,  N.  Y., 
86-88. 

Agassiz,  Louis,  412,  423,  453. 

Akers,  Elizabeth,  see  Allen,  Eliz 
abeth  Akers. 

Alboni,  Marietta,  Italian  con 
tralto,  451. 

Alcott,  A.  B.,  his  Conversations, 
34S>  350-356;  his  theory  of 
temperament,  350 ;  of  the 
"  lapse,"  352-354  ;  personal 
appearance,  356 ;  trust  in 
Providence,  356,  357 ;  esti 
mate  of  himself,  357-359 ; 
how  estimated  by  Emerson 
and  Margaret  Fuller,  357, 

358. 

Alcott,  Mrs.  A.  B.,  357. 
Alcott,    Louisa    M.,    255,    256, 

3T7.  357- 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  317, 
319 ;  his  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy, 
320. 

Allen,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Akers, 
"  Florence  Percy,"  her  Rock 
me  to  Sleep,  and  the  contro 
versy  over,  189, 191  ;  317,  375. 

American  Sentinel,  Poore's,  J. 
T.  T.'s  connection  with,  157, 
158. 


Appleton,  Thomas  G.,  on  Long 

fellow's  scholarship,  423. 
Ararat,   Jewish    "  City  of   Re 

fuge,"  in  Niagara  River,  96. 
Arlington,  Mass.,  formerly  West 

Cambridge,   266;   J.  T.  T.'s 

home  in,  267,  457. 
Arlington  Lake,  or  Spy  Pond, 

267,  445-447- 

Arnold,  Matthew,  415. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  233,  241-248, 
250-252  ;  acquired  by  Tick- 
nor  &  Fields,  257,  258  ;  323, 


BACKWOODS  home  of  author's 

boyhood,  8-23. 
Bacon,  Delia,  374. 
Bacon  -  Shakespeare       contro 

versy,  378,  379,  400. 
Ball,  Dr.  A.  M.  W.,  his  claim  to 

the   authorship  of  Rock  me 

to  Sleep,  190,  191. 
Balzac,  Honore  de,  115. 
Banks,  N.  P.,  in  Massachusetts 

Legislature,  234  ;  at  New  Or 

leans,  302,  303. 
Barnum,  Phineas  T.,  showman, 

162,  165,  182. 
Bartlett,  George  B.,  256. 
Bartlett,  John,  238. 
Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  349,  373, 

411. 


466 


INDEX 


Bellows,  Dr.  H.  W.,  254. 

Beranger,  Pierre  Jean  de,  122. 

Billings,  Hammatt,  artist,  204. 

Blair's  Rhetoric,  46. 

Blizzard  on  Illinois  prairies,  77, 
78.  _ 

Boarding  houses,  Duane  St., 
New  York,  90,  91,  102,  149; 
No.  33  Brattle  St.,  Boston, 
134,  135;  Beach  St.,  Boston, 
175,  176. 

Bonaventure  Cemetery,  Savan 
nah,  Ga.,  307,  308. 

Bonner,  Robert,  buys  Longfel 
low's  Hanging  of  the  Crane 
for  the  Ledger,  431,  432. 

Book  of  Gold,  The,  and  Other 
Poems,  331. 

Booth,  Edwin,  actor,  452. 

Booth,  Junius  Brutus,  father  of 
preceding,  452. 

Boston,  J.  T.  T.'s  residence  in, 
132  et  seq. 

Bound  in  Honor,  writing  of,  330. 

Brainerd,  J.  G.  C.,  434. 

Brattle  St.  Church,  Boston,  and 
its  24-lb.  shot,  134,  135. 

Brockport,  N.  Y.,  academy  at, 
86-88. 

Brown,  Goold,  English  Gram 
mar,  51. 

Brown,  John,  scene  of  trial  and 
execution  of,  271-273. 

Brown,  Charles  Farrar,  "  Arte- 
mus  Ward,"  181,  182. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett, 
her  Vision  of  Poets,  184. 

Browning,  Robert,  335. 

Brownlow,  William  G.,  ("  Par 
son,")  see  Taylor,  ("  Father,") 
governor  of  Tennessee,  289, 
290. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  190,448. 


Bucolics  of  Virgil,  80. 

Burleigh  Brothers,  at  anti-slav 
ery  meetings,  168. 

Burns,  Anthony,  fugitive  slave, 
rendition  of,  211,  218-224. 

Burns,  Robert,  Poems,  81,  84, 

94- 

Burritt,  Elijah  H.,  Astronomy 
and  Geography  of  the  Heav 
ens,  52. 

Burroughs,  John,  clerk  in  U.  S. 
Treasury,  374 ;  his  champion 
ship  of  Walt  Whitman,  375, 

39i- 

Butler,  Gen.  Benj.  F.,  at  New 
Orleans,  302,  303. 

Butler,  William  Allen,  his  No 
thing  to  Wear  claimed  by 
Miss  Peck,  191. 

Butterworth,  Hezekiah,  329. 

Byron,  Lord,  45,  54,  57,  94, 184, 
185,  335.  402. 

CABIN,  The,  poem  read  at  the 
celebration  of  Mrs.  Stowe's 
seventieth  birthday,  413,  414. 

Cafe  des  Mille  Colonnes,  its 
band  concerts,  127,  128. 

Calvinism,  shadow  of,  26-32 ; 
203. 

Cambridge  Village  (Newton), 
James  Trowbridge  settles  in, 

3- 
Canal,  Erie,  12,  13,  62,  63,  72, 

89,  321. 
"Carleton"     (C.    C.     Coffin), 

320. 
Carleton,  Will,  his  Betsy  and  I 

are   Out  claimed  by  another 

writer,  191. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,   letters  to  a 

friend    in   America,  84 ;    on 

troupe   of  ballet   girls,    115; 


INDEX 


467 


J.   T.  T.'s   early  admiration 

for,  335. 
Carpet  Bag,  The,  Boston  weekly 

paper,  179,  181-183,  185. 
Carpet  Bagger  in  Pennsylvania, 

A,  magazine  papers,  256. 
Carter,  Robert,  236,  238,  240. 
Cellini,  Benvenuto,  440. 
Chadwick,  Charles,  shipbroker, 

141-149. 
Chance  for  Himself,  A,  sequel 

to  Jack  Hazard,  322. 
Chancellorsville,  battle-field  of, 

278,  279. 
Channing,  Dr.  William  F.,  Al- 

cott  Conversation  at  the  house 

of,  354-356. 

Charleston,  S.  C.,  scenes  in  har 
bor  of,  308, 309 ;  city  of,  after 
the  war,  309. 

Chase,  Hon.  Salmon  P.,  let 
ter  from,  used  to  advertise 
Cudjo's  Cave,  263,  264 ;  his 
interest  in  J.  T.  T.'s  Southern 
tour,  273,  274;  Secretary  of 
the  Treasury,  370,  374 ;  per 
sonal  characteristics,  370, 37 1 ; 
Washington  home,  377  ;  dis 
approves  of  Lincoln's  stories, 
yet  repeats  one,  372,  373 ; 
compared  with  Walt  Whit 
man,  384 ;  declines  to  give 
Whitman  an  appointment, 
387,  388. 

Chicago,  site  of,  in  1835,  20;  in 

1845,  73- 

Child,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  George, 
102-112,  143. 

Choate,  Rufus,  his  famous  say 
ing,  35°- 

Church-going  sixty  years  ago, 
27,  28. 


Churchill,  Prof.  J.  W.,  elocu 
tionist,  255. 

Cicero,  Orations  of,  62. 
Civil  War,  breaking  out  of,  259, 

260. 
Claflin,   Ex-Gov.   Wm.,  Stowe 

Garden  Party  at  residence  of, 

411. 
Clark,  John  S.,  of  J.  R.  Osgood 

&  Co.,  322. 
Clarke,  Rev.  James  Freeman, 

Dr.  Holmes's  "double,"  415. 
Cobb,  Sylvanus,  Jr.,  pensioned 

by  Bonner,  432. 
Cochituate    water,    introduced 

into  Boston,  159-161. 
Coleridge,    S.  T.,  his   Ancient 

Mariner,  336,  337. 
Colfax,  Schuyler,  373. 
Collins,  Gen.  Patrick  A.,  at  the 

Moore  Festival,  409. 
Columbia,  S.  C.,  destruction  of, 

311;    visited   after  the   war, 

3"-3i3- 

Commissary,  United  States,  is 
suing  "  destitute  rations,"  282, 
283. 

Confederate  Capitol,  after  the 
war,  280-282. 

Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  some 
novels  of,  44,  45. 

Copyright  law,  sometimes  a 
precarious  protection,  192. 

Coupon  Bonds,  story,  some  ac 
count  of,  255,  256. 

Coupon  Bonds  and  Other 
Stories,  324. 

Court  House, Boston,  converted 
into  a  fortress,  and  assailed, 
220-223. 

Craft,  Ellen  and  William,  fugi 
tive  slaves,  218,  225. 


468 


INDEX 


Cram,   professor    of    pugilism, 

196. 
Crawford,  Thomas,  his  equestri 

an  statue  of  Washington,  280. 
"  Creyton,    Paul,"    pseudonym, 

118. 
Croly,  Rev.  George,  his   Sala- 

thiel,  45. 
Crooker,    Isaac,    publisher    of 

The  Yankee  Nation,  155, 156. 
Cudjo's  Cave,  war  novel,  259- 

265,  286. 
Cushman,  Charlotte,  American 

actress,  452. 

DANA,  RICHARD,  marries  Lydia 
Trowbridge,  3. 

Dana,  Richard  Henry,  defends 
fugitive  slave  Burns,  219. 

Darius  Green  and  his  Flying 
Machine,  319. 

Darley,  Felix  O.  C.,  artist,  255. 

Darwin,  Charles,  on  the  Origin 
of  Species,  453,  454. 

Davis,  Jefferson,  President  of 
Confederate  States,  180 ;  in 
church  when  he  received  news 
that  Richmond  was  lost,  281  ; 
his  threat  to  lay  waste  North 
ern  cities  with  sword  and 
torch,  313. 

Dial,  The,  organ  of  New  Eng 
land  Transcendentalists,  240. 

Diaz,  Mrs.  Abby  M.,  her  Wil 
liam  Henry  Letters,  320. 

Dickens,  Charles,  122;  novels 
in  monthly  numbers,  203;  con 
tributor  to  Our  Young  Folks, 
3*7,  3*8  ;  335  ;  as  reader  and 
personator,  452,  453. 

Dodge,  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes,  con 
ductor  of  St.  Nicholas,  325. 

Dodge,  Ossian  E.,  buys  Jenny 


Lind  ticket  for  $625,  161- 
164 ;  vicarious  author  of  comic 
songs,  164  ;  his  collections  of 
coins,  164,  165;  sketched  as 
"  Killings,"  in  Martin  Mer- 
rivale,  165  ;  successful  self- 
advertising,  165,  1 66. 

Doing  his  Best,  3d  Jack  Haz 
ard  story,  322. 

Dorchester,  Mass.,  Thomas 
Trowbridge's  settlement  in,  2. 

Douglass,  Frederick,  ex-slave 
and  anti-slavery  orator,  168, 
169. 

Drummer  Boy,  The,  war  story, 
260. 

Duluth,  Minn.,  in  1869,  257. 

Dumas,  Alexandre,  the  elder, 
his  Monte  Christo  and  Les 
Trois  Mousquetaires,  116. 

Du  Page  River,  East  Branch  of, 
73- 

EAST  TENNESSEE,  after  the  war, 
264,  285-287. 

Elocution,  first  principles  of,  68, 
352 ;  exercise  in,  68. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  174; 
connection  with  the  Dial,  240 ; 
declines  to  furnish  letters  of 
introduction,  245 ;  contribu 
tor  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
242  ;  poem  wrongly  attributed 
to,  246;  his  Brahma,  246, 
247  !  323  ;  early  misconcep 
tions  regarding,  336,  337 ;  in 
fluence  of  his  writings  on 
J.  T.  T.,  336,  339  ;  capable  of 
a  righteous  resentment,  340, 
341  ;  J.  T.  T.'s  first  meeting 
with,  343-345  ;  at  a  Saturday 
Club  dinner,  346,  347  ;  per 
sonal  appearance  and  phre- 


INDEX 


469 


nology,  347,  348 ;  on  the  lec 
ture  platform,  348-350;  354; 
at  an  Alcott  Conversation, 
355-356;  his  estimate  of  Al 
cott,  345,  358  ;  early  letter  to 
Walt  Whitman,  385,  386;  let 
ters  recommending  Whitman 
for  a  government  appoint 
ment,  385-389 ;  on  styles  of 
architecture,  404 ;  at  Whittier 
Banquet,  his  reading  of  Icha- 
bod,  426-428  ;  his  faulty  ear, 
442,  443  ;  448  ;  at  Longfel 
low's  funeral,  450. 

Emigrant's  Story,  The,  and 
Other  Poems,  324. 

English  royal  family,  members 
of,  write  for  Youth's  Compan 
ion,  329. 

Erie  Canal,  see  Canal,  Erie. 

Essay  on  Man,  Pope's,  46. 

Ethan  Brand,  Hawthorne's 
tale,  adventures  of,  120. 

Everett,  Edward,  349. 

Evolution,  Theory  of,  32,  354, 
453.  454- 

FARRAR,  DR.  CALVIN,  hydro- 
pathist,  181. 

Fast  Friends,  4th  Jack  Hazard 
story,  149,  322,  325. 

Father  Brighthopes,  194-196. 

Field,  Eugene,  198,  footnote. 

Fields,  Mrs.  Annie,  252. 

Fields,  James  T.,  publisher  and 
editor,  on  The  Vagabonds, 
252;  names  the  dog  in  that 
poem,  252,  253  ;  258,  270  ;  in 
vites  J.  T.  T.'s  cooperation 
in  establishing  Our  Young 
Folks,  317  ;  318,  319,  322,  331. 

Fields,  Osgood  &  Co.,  318, 
319,  322. 


Filling  an  Order,  poem  read  at 
the  Holmes  Breakfast,  409- 
411. 

Fish  story,  an  illustrative,  335. 

Fitchburg  Hall,  Jenny  Lind 
concert  in,  166-168. 

Foot-stove,  construction  and  use 
of,  17,  27. 

Ford,  Daniel  S.,  "  Perry  Mason 
&  Co.,"  326-330. 

Forrest,  Edwin,  American  actor, 
452. 

Foster,  Stephen  S.,  anti-slavery 
agitator,  169. 

Fowler,  L.  N.,  phrenologist,  his 
hits  and  failures,  122,  123. 

Framingham.  Mass.,  ancestral 
home  of  the  Trowbridge  fam 
ily.  3- 

Fredericksburg,  Va.,  after  the 
war,  274-276. 

Freedmen's  Bureau,  observa 
tions  on,  292-295  ;  work  of, 
295,  296. 

Fremont,  Gen.  John  C.,  nomi 
nation  of,  for  the  Presidency, 

435- 
French  Colony  in  New  York  in 

1848,  112. 
French  language,  as  learned  by 

eye  and  ear,  131,  132. 
Fugitive    Slave    Law,    created 

anti-slavery   sentiment,    215 ; 

supported  by  Webster,  429. 
Fuller,  Sarah  Margaret,  her  con 
nection  with   the   Dial,  240 ; 

association  with  Alcott,  and 

estimate  of,  358. 

GARFIELD,  GEN.  JAMES  A.,  274, 

373- 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd,  aboli 
tionist,  1 68,  170,  215. 


470 


INDEX 


Genesee  Country,  the,  4,  6. 

Genesee  Falls,  7  ;  tragedy  at, 
39,4°;  71. 

Geneseo,  village  of,  48,  49. 

Genin,  "  the  hatter,"  his  fortune 
made  by  a  Jenny  Lind  ticket, 
162. 

Gettysburg,  battle-field  of,  256. 

Gibbes,  Mayor  of  Columbia, 
S.  C.,3ii. 

Gibson,  a  classmate  of  Carlyle, 
82,  83. 

Gillem,  Gen.  Alvan  C.,  in  com 
mand  at  Chattanooga,  288. 

Goethe,  his  Hermann  und  Doro 
thea,  422. 

Gold  pencil-case  engraving, 
104-108. 

"Grandmother  Rigglesty,"  char 
acter  in  Neighbor  Jackwood, 
39 ;  as  acted  by  Mrs.  Thomp 
son,  230. 

Grant,  Gen.  U.  S.,  his  famous 
saying,  278 ;  his  body  servant, 
288  ;  change  of  habits  after 
the  battle  of  Shiloh,  288; 
scene  of  Pemberton's  surren 
der  to,  299. 

Greeley,  Horace,  254,  373. 

Greene,  Charles  Gordon,  jour 
nalist,  183. 

Greene,  Daniel,  marries  J.  T. 
T.'s  oldest  sister,  18 ;  in  Illi 
nois,  72,  73,  79,  80. 

Greene,  George  Washington, 
historian,  445. 

Greene,  Venilia  Trowbridge, 
marriage  and  emigration  to 
Illinois,  18-20;  72,  73;  com 
ment  on  The  Vagabonds,  253. 

Griswold,  Rufus  W.,  his  Poets 
of  America,  65  ;  Prose 
Writers  of  America,  338. 


Gulf  of  Mexico,  steamboat  voy 
age  on,  305. 
Gulliver's  Travels,  46. 
Guy  Vernon,  novelette  in  verse, 

331- 

Gymnasium,  Professor  Cram's, 
196. 

HACKETT,  JAMES  H.,  as  "  Fal- 
staff,"  115. 

Hale,  Rev.  Edward  Everett, 
161 ;  preaching  in  Worcester, 
197,  198,  and  note;  317. 

Hale,  Lucretia  P.,  317. 

Hale,  Nathan,  Boston  water 
commissioner,  161. 

Halpine,  Charles  Graham,  Bar- 
num's  private  secretary,  182; 
contributor  to  Boston  news 
papers,  183 ;  his  Lyrics  by 
the  Letter  H.,  184;  affair  of 
honor  with  Handiboe,  186, 
187  ;  adjutant-general  in  the 
Civil  War,  187,  188 ;  Miles 
O'Reilly  papers,  188;  death, 
1 88. 

"  Hamilton,  Gail  "  (pseudonym 
of  Abigail  Dodge),  her  con 
nection  with  Our  Young 
Folks,  318;  Battle  of  the 
Books,  318. 

Handiboe,  E.  J.,  his  challenge 
of  Halpine,  and  the  reasons 
therefor,  185,  186. 

Hanging  of  the  Crane,  The,  his 
tory  of,  431,  432. 

Harlan,  James,  Secretary  of  the 
Interior,  390. 

Harvard  Medical  College,  tra 
gedy  at,  154. 

Hawley,  J.  R.,  General  and  Sen 
ator,  280,  281. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  adven- 


INDEX 


471 


tures  of  his  manuscript  story, 
Ethan  Brand,  120;  240,  412, 

436- 

Hayden,  Lewis,  attempts  rescue 
of  fugitive  slave  Burns,  220, 
221. 

Hayes,  Dr.  Isaac  I.,  his  Cast 
Away  in  the  Cold,  320. 

Hemans,  Felicia,  47. 

Henry,  Patrick,  his  famous 
speech,  where  delivered,  281. 

Hexameters,  classic,  adaptation 
of  in  English,  421,  422. 

Hicks,  Richard  "  H.,"  276-278. 

Higginson,  Thomas  Went- 
worth,  preaching  in  Worces 
ter,  199  ;  attempts  rescue  of 
fugitive  slave  Burns,  220, 
221. 

His  Own  Master,  minor  novel, 
326. 

Historical  Reader,  51. 

Hoar,  Hon.  George  F.,  in  the 
Massachusetts  House  of 
Representatives,  234. 

"  Holden's  Dollar  Magazine," 
101. 

Holland,  Dr.  J.  G.,  325. 

"  Holmes,  Augustus,"  pseudo 
nym  of  J.  T.  T.,  subjects 
treated  under,  320. 

Holmes,  John,  238. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  his 
comment  on  Mrs.  Thompson's 
"  Grandmother  Rigglesty," 
230 ;  at  informal  dinners,  238  ; 
first  Autocrat  papers,  247, 
248 ;  christens  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  244,  and  proposes 
The  Atlantic  Lighter  for 
Our  Young  Folks,  317  ;  on 
instructors  in  the  Medical 
College,  328  ;  347  ;  J.  T.  T.'s 


early  interviews  with,  402 
403 ;  vivacity  at  table,  and 
anecdotes  of,  404, 405  ;  Brah- 
minical  exclusiveness,  406  ; 
the  Professor  papers,  and  cor 
respondence  regarding,  406, 
407  ;  at  the  Moore  Festival, 
408, 409 ;  at  the  Breakfast  cel 
ebrating  his  seventieth  birth 
day,  409-411;  comment  on 
Filling  an  Order,  411  ;  at 
Claflin-Stowe  Garden  Party, 
411-414 ;  his  "  Double,"  415 ; 
mental  characteristics,  416  ; 
place  in  American  literature, 
417  ;  occasional  poems,  423, 
424 ;  at  Whittier  Banquet, 
426;  his  Hunt  for  the  Cap. 
tain,  429  ;  448. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  Jr., 
"  Captain  "  and  eminent  ju 
rist,  429,  430. 

Home  Idyl,  A,  and  Other 
Poems,  331. 

Homer,  Pope's,  115. 

Hooker,  Gen.,  "  Fighting  Joe," 
scene  of  his  "  battle  in  the 
clouds,"  288. 

Hotchkiss  &  Co.,  Boston  news 
dealers,  150,  155. 

Howard,  Gen.  O.  O.,  his  cheer 
ing  advice,  273. 

Howe,  Dr.  Estes,  237. 

Howells,  William  D.,  editor  of 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  319 ; 
on  Walt  Whitman,  369. 

Hudibras,  Butler's,  94. 

Hugo,  Victor,  his  Le  Dernier 
Jour  d'un  Condamne,  116; 
La  Legende  des  Siecles,  re 
viewed  by  Taylor,  443. 

Hume,  David,  his  History  of 
England,  44. 


472 


INDEX 


ILLINOIS     RIVER,     steamboat 

travel  on,  in  1853,  201. 
Ingraham,   J.    H.,   his    Lafitte, 

45- 
"  Interviewers,"  ways  of,  334. 

JACK  HAZARD  and  his  For 
tunes,  how  written,  321. 

Jackson,  Dr.  Charles  T.,  405. 

James,  G.  P.  R.,  novels  of,  45. 

Jenkins,  Amaziah,  grammarian 
and  abolitionist,  69,  70. 

Jersey  City,  N.  J.,  J.  T.  T.'s  life 
in,  104. 

Jewett,  J.  P.  &  Co.,  241. 

KEATS,  JOHN,  335. 

Kellogg,  Elijah,  320. 

Kennedy,  Mayor  of  New  Or 
leans,  1865-66,  303. 

"  Killings,"  character  in  Martin 
Merrivale,  165. 

Kimball,  Moses,  proprietor  of 
Boston  Museum,  233. 

Kimberley,  Miss,  actress,  Vol 
taire's  Semiramis  translated 
and  adapted  for,  207-210. 

Kingsley,  Charles,  observation 
on  Longfellow,  419. 

Kittredge,  Mrs.,  boarding-house 
keeper,  135. 

Kossuth,  Louis,  349. 

LA  FONTAINE,  JEAN  DE,  82. 
Lamartine,   Alphonse   de,  115, 

116. 

Lamb,  Charles,  183. 
Larcom,  Lucy,  318. 
Lawrence's  Adventures,  topics 

comprised  in,  320. 
Leaves  of  Grass,  see  Whitman, 

Walt. 
Lee,    Robert    E.,  Confederate 


general,  his  dispatch  an 
nouncing  the  loss  of  Rich 
mond,  281. 

Lee,  William,  of  Phillips,  Samp 
son  &  Co.,  242. 

Le  Sage,  his  Gil  Bias,  116. 

Levees  of  the  Mississippi,  301. 

Library,  circulating,  in  early 
settlement,  44  and  note. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  250,  259, 
370-372. 

Lind,  Jenny,  concerts  in  Amer 
ica,  161-168  ;  182,  451,  452. 

Little  Master,  The,  minor  novel, 
86,  330. 

Locke,  John,  On  the  Human 
Understanding,  46. 

Lockport,  N.  Y.,  J.  T.  T.'s  life 
in,  62-7 2  ;  teaching  school  in, 
8 1-86;  200. 

Log  house,  J.  T.  T.'s  birth 
place,  8-10. 

Longfellow,  Henry  \V.,  242, 
246,  247 ;  a  reading  of  The 
Vagabonds  at  the  house  of, 
252 ;  contributor  to  Our 
Young  Folks,  318  ;  advice  to 
J.  T.  T.,  330 ;  347  ;  comment 
on  Emerson's  Essays,  341  ; 
400,  412,  415,  416;  J.  T.  T.'s 
first  meeting  with,  418,  419 ; 
personal  appearance,  419, 
420 ;  on  a  certain  class  of 
critics,  420,  421  ;  Hiawatha, 
421  ;  Evangeline,  421,  423 ; 
Poe's  attacks  upon,  421-423  ; 
occasional  poems,  423,  424 ; 
at  the  Whittier  Banquet,  425, 

426,  and   his   comments   on, 

427,  428;    attitude    towards 
slavery,  428-430  ;   prices   re 
ceived  by,  for   early   poems, 
430,  431 ;   contributes  to  the 


INDEX 


473 


New  York  Ledger,  431,  432  ; 
unconscious  borrowing  of 
ideas  by  him  and  others,  433- 
438  ;  in  his  Cambridge  home, 
438-441 ;  comments  on  con 
temporaries,  442,  443;  ways 
with  children,  444-446;  on 
the  shores  of  Spy  Pond,  446 ; 
his  last  letter  to  J.  T.  T.,  447 ; 
his  enduring  fame,  448-450 ; 
characterized  by  Emerson, 

45°- 

Lookout  Mountain,  ascent  of, 
288. 

Loring,  Edward  G.,  U.  S.  Com 
missioner,  remands  Anthony 
Burns  to  slavery,  218-220. 

Lost  Earl,  The,  and  Other 
Poems,  331. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  writes 
Ode  for  Cochituate  Water 
P'estival,  159-161  ;  at  Elm- 
wood  in  1854,  235-238 ;  ap 
pointed  Harvard  professor 
and  sails  for  Europe,  239; 
starts  The  Pioneer,  with  Rob 
ert  Carter,  240  ;  edits  the  At 
lantic  Monthly,  244-248 ;  con 
tributes  to  Our  Young  Folks, 
318  ;  347 ;  his  characteriza 
tion  of  Walt  Whitman,  392  ; 
404,412,436;  his  borrowings 
from  Longfellow  and  Shelley, 
437,  438  5  44°. 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  B.,  his 
Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  184 ; 

335- 

Mackinaw,  Straits  of,  73.     ' 
Mad  River,  tributary  to  Otter 

Creek,  226. 
"Manton,"  character    in   Fast 

Friends,  149. 


Martin  Merrivale,  novel,  165, 
203-205,  218,  225,  226. 

Matches,  first  friction  ("luci- 
fer"),  17,18. 

Mathews,    Prof.   William,   192, 

193- 

McLees,  Archibald,  engraver, 
121-123. 

Mead,  Edwin  D.,  319. 

Melodeon,  Boston,  Theodore 
Parker  preaches  in,  168-170; 
anti-slavery  meetings  held  in, 
1 68,  169. 

Menotomy  Lake,  poem  written 
at  Mr.  Longfellow's  sugges 
tion,  446,  447. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
Hackett  as  "  Falstaff "  in, 
114,  115. 

Milton,  his  Paradise  Lost,  51. 

Minerva  Jones,  The,  fitted  for 
voyage  to  the  California 
coast,  147,  148. 

Minnesota,  trips  to  the  wilds  of, 
201,  257. 

Mirror  of  the  Fair,  The,  J.  T. 
T.'s  editorship  of,  157. 

Moliere,  122. 

Monroe,  Lewis  Baxter,  his  in 
terest  in  the  writing  of  Jack- 
wood,  227  ;  239 ;  remark  on 
Emerson's  voice,  349  ;  at  an 
Alcott  Conversation,  350- 
352  ;  his  great  work,  352. 

Montaigne,  335. 

Moore,  Thomas,  his  centennial 
celebrated  in  Boston,  408, 
409. 

Moosehead  Lake,  trip  to,  in 
1849,  I36~I4I- 

Morituri  Salutamis,  Longfel 
low's  poem,  occasion  of, 
424. 


474 


INDEX 


Morton,  Dr.  William  T.  G.,  his 
discovery  of  anaesthesia,  206, 
207,  405. 

Motley,  J.  L.,  historian,  247. 

Moulton,  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler, 
188,  189. 

Mount  Kineo,  Maine,  138. 

Munn,   Dr.,   oculist,   operation 

by,  52,  53- 

Murdock,  James  E.,  actor,  255. 
Music  Hall,  Boston,  Theodore 

Parker  preaches  in,  170-174. 

NASHVILLE,  anniversary  of  bat 
tle  of,  289. 

National  Era,  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin  in  clippings  from, 
242. 

Neighbor  Jackwood,  the  novel, 
39;  the  writing  of,  211-232; 
240,  262,  263,  364. 

Neighbor  Jackwood,  the  play, 
229-232,  240. 

New  Orleans,  city  of,  in  1865-66, 
301,  302. 

Newton,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alonzo, 
265-267,  350,  363. 

New  Year's  Address,  prize,  63- 
67  ;  214,  note. 

New  York  city,  a  May  morning 
in,  89,  90 ;  J.  T.  T.'s  life  in, 
89  et  seq. 

Niagara  Courier,  63-66. 

Niagara  Falls,  63,  71,  72. 

Niblo's  Garden  in  1848,  112, 
114,  115,  124. 

Nine  Oaks,  Illinois  farm,  73. 

Noah,  Major  Mordecai  M.,  jour 
nalist  and  playwright,  95 ;  his 
Utopian  "  City  of  Refuge,"  at 
Niagara  Falls,  96 ;  friendly 
aid  and  advice  to  J.  T.  T., 
96-101 ;  121,  250,  459. 


O'CONNOR,  WILLIAM  DOUG 
LAS,  leaves  literature  for  a 
government  office,  373  ;  in 
the  Lighthouse  Board,  374 ; 
his  novel,  Harrington,  375 ; 
championship  of  unpopular 
causes,  375 ;  intimacy  with 
Walt  Whitman,  376-378  ;  his 
brilliant  defense  of,  390,  391. 

Ogden,  Monroe  Co.,  N.  Y.,  J. 
T.  T.'s  birthplace,  6,  1 2 ;  its 
centennial  celebration,  44, 
note;  revisited,  177,  321. 

Olive  Branch,  weekly  paper,  J. 
T.T.'s  contributions,  136, 137. 

Ontario,  Lake,  13,  71. 

O'Reilly,  John  Boyle,  poet  and 
journalist,  at  the  Moore  Fes 
tival,  409. 

Origin  of  Species,  The,  Dar 
win's,  354,  453,  454. 

Orr,  Governor,  of  South  Caro 
lina,  311. 

Osgood,  James   R.,   publisher, 

322,  323- 
Otter   Creek,  in  valley  of  the 

Green  Mountains,  225,  226. 
Our   Young    Folks    magazine, 

159.  3!7-323,  327- 

PARKER,  REV.  THEODORE, 
preaching  at  the  Melodeon, 
168-170 ;  at  Music  Hall,  170- 
J73 ;  J-  T.  T.'s  sonnet  to,  171, 
337  ;  compared  with  the  devil, 
172;  in  his  library,  172,  173; 
conservative  radicalism  of, 
174;  at  the  rendition  of  fugi 
tive  slave  Burns,  220 ;  con 
tributor  to  the  Dial,  240 ; 
censure  of  Longfellow  for 
subserviency  to  the  slave 
power,  429. 


INDEX 


475 


Parker,  Theodore  D.,  Boston 
merchant,  advised  to  write 
the  D  in  his  name  conspicu 
ously  plain,  169. 

Parkman,  Rev.  Francis,  Uni 
tarian  divine,  153. 

Parkman,     Francis,     historian, 

153.  238. 

Parkman,  Dr.  George,  his  dis 
appearance  and  tragic  end, 

*S*~iSS- 

Parny,    French    poet,    his    La 

Guerre  des  Dieux,  116. 

Parton,  James,  317. 

Passy,  France,  summer  at,  226, 
227. 

Pawnbroker's  establishment, 
scene  in,  126,  127. 

Pemberton,  John  C.,  Confeder 
ate  general,  scene  of  his  sur 
render  to  Grant,  299. 

Pembroke,  N.  Y.,  a  vacation 
at,  67-70. 

Pennsylvania  coal  and  oil  re 
gions,  256,  320. 

People's  Journal,  of  London, 
Hewitt's,  reprints  story  by  J. 
T.  T.,  101. 

"  Percy,  Florence,"  pseudonym, 
see  Allen,  Mrs.  E.  A. 

Perrault,  M.,  leader  of  Niblo's 
orchestra,  109,  no,  112-116, 
129-132. 

Perrault,  Mme.,  109,  no,  112, 
113;  her  one  fault,  130,  131; 
death  of,  202. 

Phelps,  Elizabeth  Stuart,  317. 

Phelps,  Mrs.  Fidelia  Trow- 
bridge,  62. 

Phillips,  Moses  D.,  publisher, 
193-195,  197,  198;  his  esti 
mate  of  Rev.  E.  E.  Hale,  197, 
198  and  note;  of  Neighbor 


Jackwood,  228;  declines 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  243 ; 
undertakes  Atlantic  Monthly, 
244;  death,  248;  257,  340, 

342.  343- 
Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.,  192, 

203,  234,  241-243,  248,   259, 

323,  324,  339. 
Phillips,  Wendell,   anti-slavery 

orator,    168,    215,    220;    his 

voice,  349. 

Phrenology,  122,  123,  347,  348. 
Pickard,    S.    T.,    his    Life    of 

Whittier,  425;  426-427  note. 
Pierpont,  Governor  of  Virginia, 

280. 
Pillsbury,   Parker    anti-slavery 

agitator,  169. 
Plato,  335,  353. 
Plutarch,  45. 
Pocket  Rifle,  The,  minor  novel, 

330- 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  his  Sleeper, 
184  ;  contributor  to  Lowell's 
Pioneer,  240  ;  J.  T.  T.'s  early 
passion  for,  335;  attacks  on 
Longfellow,  421-423;  448. 

Poets  of  America,  Griswold's, 

65- 

Pontchartrain,  Lake,  evening 
on,  304,  305. 

Poore,  Ben  :  Perley,  publishes 
The  Mirror  of  the  Fair,  157  ; 
The  American  Sentinel,  158  ; 
objects  to  J.  T.  T.'s  turning 
the  Sentinel  into  an  anti- 
slavery  paper,  216-218. 

Pope,  Alexander,  his  Essay  on 
Man,  and  Homer,  45,  46. 

Prescott,  William  H.,  historian, 

324- 

Prospect  Hill,  Somerville, Mass., 
old  earthworks  on,  265,  266; 


476 


INDEX 


J.  T.  T.'s  residence  on,  265, 
266,  363,  369. 

Psalm  of  Life,  Longfellow's, 
price  paid  for  by  the  Knicker 
bocker  Magazine,  430,  431. 

Public  Garden,  Boston,  in  1848, 

135- 

Putnam,  Israel,  Revolutionary 
general,  provokes  the  mirth 
of  Washington,  441. 

QUINCY,  EDMUND,  238. 

Quincy,  Josiah,  mayor  of  Bos 
ton  in  1848,  160. 

Quincy,  Josiah,  mayor  of  Bos 
ton,  grandson  of  preceding, 
1 60. 

Quitman,  The,  Mississippi 
steamboat  in  1865,  299-301. 

RACHEL,  French  tragic  actress, 

452. 

Rattlesnakes,  prairie,  75-77. 
Read,  Thomas    Buchanan,   his 

painting       of      Longfellow's 

daughters,  440. 
Recollections  of  Lalla  Rookh, 

poem    read    at    the    Moore 

Festival,  409  note. 
Reid,  Mayne,  his  Afloat  in  the 

Forest,  320. 
Reid,  Whitelaw,  273. 
Rhetorical  Reader,  Porter's,  51. 
Richmond,  Va.,  after  the  Civil 

War,  279-283. 
Ristori,  Italian  actress,  452. 
Roberts,  George,  gets  Voltaire's 

Semiramis  adapted  for  Miss 

Kimberley  by  J.  T.  T.,  207, 

208  ;  his  valuable  autograph, 

208,  210. 
Rochester,    N.   Y.,   site  of,  in 

1812,  7. 


Rogers,    Samuel,   banker-poet, 

440. 

Rollin's  Ancient  History,  45. 
Rossetti,    William,    editor    of 

English  edition  of  Leaves  of 

Grass,  points  out  a  blunder 

of  Whitman's,  394. 
Rowse,  S.  W.,  artist,  illustrator 

of  Martin  Merrivale,  204. 
Russell,  Sol  Smith,  actor  and 

personator,  254. 

SABBATH-KEEPING  sixty  years 

ago,  26-28. 
St.  Anthony,  Falls  of,  in  1853 

and  1869,  201. 
St.    Nicholas,     magazine     for 

young  people,  323,  325,  326. 
Salvini,  Tommaso,  Italian  actor, 

452- 
Sampson,  Charles,  of  Phillips, 

Sampson  &  Co.,  204,  241,  257. 
Sanborn,  F.  B.,  his  Life  of  Al- 

cott  quoted,  357,  359. 
Sand,    George     (Mme.    Dude- 

vant),  115,  116. 
Sandeau,  Jules,  115. 
Sargent,  Epes,  editor  of  Boston 

Transcript,    171  ;    336,   337  ; 

"  skipped  "  by  R.  W.  Emer 
son,  340,  341. 
Saturday  Club,  at  a  dinner  of, 

346,  347- 

Savannah,  city  of,  in  1866,  307. 
Schiller,  82. 
School,  district,   of   the   olden 

time,  40,  41,  78,  79,  Si-86. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  his  Ivanhoe, 

44,    51 ;    Lady   of   the  Lake, 

45  ;  54,84,  94,  122,335. 
Scribe,      Augustine      Eugene, 

French  author,  his    Pequillo 

Alliaga  and  dramas,  116. 


INDEX 


477 


Seaver  Place,  Boston,  J.  T.  T.'s 
residence  in,  176,  177,  194, 
218,  265. 

Sedgwick,  Rev.  Mr.,  abolition 
ist  minister,  212,  213. 

Semiramis,  Voltaire's,  trans 
lated  and  adapted  for  Miss 
Kimberley,  207-210. 

Seward,  William  H.,  Lincoln's 
Secretary  of  State,  372. 

Shadrach,  fugitive  slave,  218, 
219. 

Shakespeare,  45,  51,  335,  377, 
378,  379.  399.  4°o. 

Shelley,  335. 

Sheridan,  Gen.  P.  H.,  at  New 
Orleans  in  1865-66,  303,  304. 

Sherman,  John,  Senator,  373. 

Sherman,  Gen.  William  T.,  his 
"  march  to  the  sea,"  289  ; 
his  "  gloves,"  305,  306 ;  track 
of  his  army  through  Georgia, 
305,  308  ;  at  Columbia,  311. 

Shillaber,  Benjamin  P.,  ("  Mrs. 
Partington,")  179,  180,  183, 
185. 

Silver  Medal,  The,  story  for  the 
young,  330,  457. 

Simms,  Thomas,  fugitive  slave, 
218,  219. 

Simms,  William  Gilmore, 
Southern  novelist,  310,  311. 

Sindbad  the  Sailor,  spectacular 
play,  233. 

Skerritt,  Rose,  actress,  as 
"  Bim "  in  Neighbor  Jack- 
wood,  229,  230. 

Slavery  question,  agitation  of, 
168,  169,  212-215. 

Sleigh-riding  on  the  Illinois 
prairies,  77. 

Smith,  Roswell,  publisher  of  St. 
Nicholas,  325. 


Smith,  W.   H.   Sedley,    stage- 
manager  and  actor,  229. 
Snake-bite,  popular  remedy  for, 

77:, 

Soulie,  Frederic,  French  author, 
116. 

South,  The,  book  of  travels  in 
the  desolated  States  after  the 
Civil  War,  267-270,  284,  285, 
3U-31 6. 

Southerners,  typical,  after  the 
war,  275-278,  283,  284,  286, 
287,  289,  290-292,  300,  301, 
306,307,310,311,313. 

Spectator,  Addison's,  46. 

Spencer's  Basin,  or  Spenceport, 
in  the  town  of  Ogden,  n,  12, 
321. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  quoted,  353. 

Spiritualism,  454,  455. 

Spottsylvania,  battle-field  of, 
276,  278,  279. 

Sprague,  Mrs.  Kate  Chase,  373. 

Sprague,  William,  senator  from 
Rhode  Island,  373. 

Stage-coach  travel,  Western,  in 
1853,  202. 

Stebbins.L.,  Hartford  publisher, 
267-270,  285. 

Stockton,  Frank  R.,  325. 

Stoddard,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rich 
ard  Henry,  232. 

Stowe,  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher, 
invites  J.  T.  T.  to  her  home, 
174;  nicknamed  by  Halpine, 
183 ;  her  Uncle  Tom,  242- 
244;  Dred,  228,  243  ;  contrib 
utor  to  Atlantic  Monthly,  244- 
246 ;  to  Our  Young  Folks, 
317  ;  celebration  of  her  seven 
tieth  birthday,  411-414. 

Strother,  Gen.  David  II., 
"  Porte  Crayon,"  280. 


478 


INDEX 


Sue,  Eugene,  novels  of,  1 1 5, 1 16. 

Sumner,  Charles,  349,  428. 

Suttle,  Charles  F.,  Virginia 
slaveholder,  219. 

Swedenborg,  his  law  of  corre 
spondences,  353. 

Syracuse,  N.  Y.,  a  frontier  set 
tlement,  7. 

TAUNTON,  Eng.,  ancestral  home 
of  Trowbridges,  I. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  254,  268,  317 ; 
his  feat  in  reviewing  Hugo's 
La  Legende  des  Siecles,  443  ; 
Longfellow's  estimate  of,  443- 

Taylor,  Edward  T.,  ("  Father,") 
on  a  trip  to  Moosehead  Lake, 
137-141;  146. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  his  superior 
ity  to  Foe,  335  ;  400,  442. 

Terry,  Gen.  Alfred  H.,  280,  281. 

Terry,  Rose,  317. 

Thackeray,  William  Make 
peace,  203,  335. 

Thaxter,  Celia,  317. 

Thomas,  Gen.  George  H.,  290. 

Thompson,  Mrs.,  actress,  takes 
out  her  teeth  playing  "Grand 
mother  Rigglesty,"  230. 

Three  Scouts,  The,  war  story, 
262. 

Ticknor  &  Fields,  house  of,  257, 

258,  3l6>  323.  324- 

Ticknor,  Howard  M.,  318. 

Tinkham  Brothers'  Tide-Mill, 
The,  minor  novel,  326. 

Toby  Trafford,  where  written, 
326. 

Townsend,  John,  Westmore 
land  farmer,  3,  4. 

Townsend,  John,  the  younger, 
4 ;  his  name  and  his  silver 
half-dollar,  4-6. 


Transcendentalism,  New  Eng 
land,  240. 

Tremont  Temple,  auction  sale 
of  Jenny  Lind  tickets  in,  162- 
164 ;  concerts,  166. 

Tribune,  New  York,  letters  to, 

233- 

Trowbridge  ancestry  and  fam 
ily,  1-3  and  note. 

Trowbridge,  Cornelia  Warren, 
266. 

Trowbridge,  John,  major  in  war 
of  the  Revolution,  3. 

Trowbridge,  John  Townsend, 
named  for  his  father's  foster 
brother,  4 ;  his  first  silver  half- 
dollar,  and  his  great  flock  of 
sheep,  4-6;  birth,  10,  n  ; 
backwoods  home,  11-23; 
childish  illusions,  21-25;  early 
religious  feelings,  25-32  ;  gen 
tle  and  savage  traits,  41,  42 ; 
intellectual  awakening,  42- 
47  ;  first  verse-making,  47  ; 
solitary  studies  and  farm- 
work,  47-52 ;  trouble  with  the 
eyes,  and  an  operation,  51- 
53  ;  first  printed  poem,  54- 
56 ;  causeless  melancholy  and 
a  real  sorrow,  57,  58  ;  leaving 
home,  58-62  ;  attends  school 
in  Lockport,  62,  63 ;  writes 
prize  New  Year's  Address, 
63-67  ;  vacation  at  Pembroke, 
67-70 ;  trip  by  the  Lakes  to 
Illinois,  72,  73 ;  life  on  the 
prairies,  74-78  ;  teaches 
school  in  Illinois,  78,  79; 
rents  land  and  raises  crop  of 
wheat,  79-81  ;  teaches  school 
in  Lockport,  N.  Y.,  81-86; 
enters  Brockport  Academy 
for  one  hour,  86-88 ;  goes  to 


INDEX 


479 


New  York,  88,  89 ;  in  a  city 
boarding-house,  90,  91  ;  seeks 
employment,  92,  93,  and  a 
publisher  for  a  volume  of 
poems,  94 ;  befriended  by 
Major  Noah,  who  aids  him 
in  selling  a  novelette,  95-100 ; 
contributes  to  Holden's  Dol 
lar  Magazine,  101 ;  removes 
to  Jersey  City,  104;  engraves 
gold  pencil-cases,  105-108 ; 
returns  to  New  York,  109, 
1 10  ;  life  in  a  French  family, 
112-116,  124-132  ;  experi 
ences  as  a  writer,  117-121  ; 
sits  for  phrenological  chart, 
122, 123  ;  removes  to  Boston, 
132, 133 ;  excursion  to  Moose- 
head  Lake,  134-141  ;  nar 
rowly  escapes  being  a  "  forty- 
niner,"  141-148  ;  edits  The 
Yankee  Nation,  149-156; 
The  Mirror  of  the  Fair,  157, 
and  Poore's  Sentinel,  1 58 ; 
at  Jenny  Lind  concerts,  166- 
168 ;  acquaintance  with  Theo 
dore  Parker  and  Mrs.  Stowe, 
170-174  ;  changes  lodgings 
and  habits,  175-177  ;  revisits 
old  homestead,  177 ;  writes  un 
successful  novel,  178  ;  friend 
ship  with  Shillaber,  179,  180; 
acts  as  Halpine's  second  in  an 
affair  "of  honor,"  186,  187; 
writes  Father  Brighthopes, 
193-196  ;  at  a  water-cure  es 
tablishment,  197-200  ;  jour 
ney  to  the  northwest,  200- 
202  ;  writes  Martin  Merrivale, 
203-205 ;  adapts  Voltaire's 
Semiramis  for  Miss  Kimber- 
ley,  207-209 ;  visits  Europe, 
209 ;  witnesses  rendition  of  the 


fugitive  slave  Burns,  218-224 ; 
Neighbor  Jackwood,  the 
novel,  226,  227,  and  the  play, 
229-231  ;  other  dramatic 
work,  233  ;  acquaintance  with 
Underwood  and  Lowell,  233- 
240,  and  connection  with  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  244-256 ; 
journeys,  256,  257  ;  Cudjo's 
Cave  and  other  war  stories, 
259-264 ;  removes  to  Pros 
pect  Hill,  265  ;  first  marriage, 
266  ;  second  marriage,  267  ; 
removes  to  Arlington  (West 
Cambridge),  267  ;  engaged  to 
write  book  about  the  South, 
at  the  close  of  the  war, 
267-270  ;  visits  scene  of  John 
Brown's  execution,  271-273 ; 
Washington,  273 ;  Freder- 
icksburg,  274-276 ;  Grant's 
battle-fields,  278,  279 ;  Rich 
mond,  279-284 ;  return  home, 
and  serious  illness,  284,  285 ; 
visits  East  Tennessee,  285- 
287  ;  Lookout  Mountain  and 
Nashville,  288^290 ;  observa 
tions  on  Freedmen's  Bureau, 
292-296 ;  to  Vicksburg  and 
New  Orleans,  296-304 ;  on 
the  track  of  Sherman's  grand 
march,  305-30  7;  at  Savan 
nah,  307,  308;  Charleston, 
309-311 ;  Columbia,  311-313; 
completes  The  South,  314  ; 
Our  Young  Folks,  317-319; 
contributions  to,  316,  320  ; 
Jack  Hazard  stories,  221,  222, 
226 ;  connection  with  St. 
Nicholas,  325,  326;  with 
Youth's  Companion,  326- 
330 ;  best  known  not  by  his 
best  work,  333;  his  literary 


480 


INDEX 


passions,  335, 336 ;  influenced 
by  Emerson,  336-339  ;  his 
first  meeting  with,  342-345 ; 
observations  on  Emerson  and 
Alcott,  345-359;  early  ac 
quaintance  with  Walt  Whit 
man  and  his  writings,  360- 
370 ;  guest  of  Hon.  S.  P. 
Chase,  in  Washington,  370- 
373  ;  intercourse  with  Chase 
and  Whitman,  373-391  ;  ob 
servations  on  Whitman,  391- 
401 ;  first  meetings  with  Dr. 
Holmes,  402,  403 ;  corres 
pondence  with,  406-408,  41 1 ; 
appearance  with,  at  the  Moore 
Festival,  408,  409;  reads 
poem  at  the  Holmes  Break 
fast,  409-411  ;  reads  poem  at 
the  Stowe-Claflin  Garden 
Party,  411-414;  at  the  Whit- 
tier  Birthday  Banquet,  425, 
426-427  and  note ;  inter 
course  with  Longfellow,  and 
observations  on,  427-450 ; 
investigations  of  spiritual 
ism,  454,  455 ;  "  honors,"  457, 
458 ;  philosophy  of  life,  461, 
462. 

Trowbridge,  Lydia,  marries 
Richard  Dana,  3. 

Trowbridge,  Rebecca  Willey, 
J.  T.  T.'s  mother,  6-10;  28, 
29,  32-38;  widowhood,  58-61  ; 
141. 

Trowbridge,  Windsor,  brother 
of  J.  T.  T.,  29. 

Trowbridge,  Windsor  Stone, 
father  of  J.  T.  T.,  birth  and 
boyhood,  3,  4 ;  emigrates  to 
the  Genesee  Country,  4-8 ; 
talent  for  music  and  story 
telling,  33-37  ;  death,  57 ;  on 


the  slavery  question,  213, 
214. 

Trowbridge,  Windsor  Warren, 
son  of  J.  T.  T.,  266,  267,  note. 

Tupper,  Martin  F.,  his  Prover 
bial  Philosophy,  368. 

Two  Biddicut  Boys,  minor 
novel,  326. 

UNDERWOOD,  FRANCIS  H., 
234 ;  literary  adviser  of  Phil 
lips,  Sampson  &  Co.,  234, 
235  ;  his  friendly  offices,  235- 
238 ;  projects  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  241-244;  assistant 
editor,  244-248  ;  death  in  Ed 
inburgh,  249 ;  his  Quabbin, 
249 ;  report  of  an  Emerson- 
Holmes  conversation,  404 ; 
supper  to  Holmes,  405. 

VAGABONDS,  THE,  history  of, 
250-255. 

Vagabonds,  The,  and  Other 
Poems,  255,  324. 

Vicksburg,  after  the  war,  296, 
297 ;  surrender  of,  298 ;  monu 
ment  commemorating,  299. 

Vigny,  Alfred  de,  his  Cinq- 
Mars,  46. 

Virgil,  69,  70,  80,  82. 

Voltaire,  his  La  Pucelle,  116; 
Semiramis,  translated  and 
adapted  by  J.  T.  T.,  207-210; 
his  Soliloquy  of  Hamlet,  re 
translated  by  Lowell,  237. 

WALLINGFORD,  Vt,  204,  225. 
"  Ward,  Artemus,"  see  Browne, 

Charles  F. 
Ward,  Samuel,  negotiates  sale 

of  Longfellow's  poems,  431, 

432- 


INDEX 


481 


Warren,  Dr.  J.  C.,  at  Massachu 
setts  General  Hospital,  206, 
207. 

Warren,  William,  comic  actor, 
as  "  Enos  Crumlett,"  229. 

Washington,  city   of,    in  1863, 

376,  377- 

Washington,  Gen.  George,  on 
Prospect  Hill,  265  ;  his  head 
quarters  in  Cambridge,  439 ; 
how  his  gravity  was  once 
overcome,  441. 

Water-cure,  at  Worcester,  au 
thor's  trial  of,  197,  199,  200. 

Webster,  Daniel,  Parker's  ser 
mon  on,  174 ;  his  last  speech 
in  Faneuil  Hall,  349 ;  advo 
cacy  of  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  429. 

Webster,  Prof.  John  White, 
kills  Dr.  Parkman,  154;  con- 
victei  and  hanged,  154,  155. 

Wells,  governor  of  Louisiana 
in  1866,  303. 

"West,  The,"  in  first  half  of 
igth  century,  19,  72. 

West  Cambridge,  see  Arlington. 

Westmoreland,  N.  Y.,  home  of 
author's  parents,  3,  6. 

Whipple,  Edwin  P.,  at  an  Al- 
cott  Conversation,  355. 

Whiskey,  remedy  for  snake-bite, 

77; 

White,  Kirke,  English  poet,  47. 

Whitman,  Lieut.-Col.  George 
W.,  brother  of  Walt,  wounded 
at  Fredericksburg,  370. 

Whitman,  Walt,  179,  335;  his 
first  Leaves  of  Grass,  360, 
361  ;  reading  proofs  of  his  3d 
edition,  361  ;  a  visit  from, 
363,  364;  influenced  by  Em 
erson,  365,  368  ;  personal  ap 


pearance,  361,  369,  376 ;  his 
Washington  garret,  377  ;  on 
Shakespeare's  Plays,  378;  his 
simple  breakfast,  380 ;  Drum- 
Taps,  381 ;  work  in  hospitals, 
382,  383 ;  compared  with 
Chase,  383,  384 ;  Emerson's 
letters  to,  and  regarding,  385 ; 
Chase  refuses  appointment 
to,  387-389 ;  memorandum  re 
garding,  389  note ;  appointed 
to  and  turned  out  of  place  in 
the  Interior  Department,  390 ; 
O'Connor's  defense  of,  390, 
391  ;  later  publications  con 
cerning,  391  ;  death  at  Cam- 
den,  N.  J.,  391  ;  change  in 
public  opinion  regarding, 
392 ;  Lowell's  characteriza 
tion  of,  392  ;  his  writings  esti 
mated,  392-401,  448. 

Whitney,  Mrs.  Adelaide  D.  T., 
her  We  Girls,  320. 

Whittier,  John  G.,  317,  412  ; 
Boston  Banquet  in  honor  of, 
426,  427  ;  his  boyish  experi 
ment  in  levitation,  426-427 
note ;  his  Ichabod,  reading 
of,  by  Emerson,  censured  by 
Longfellow,  427-429 ;  443, 
448. 

Whittier,  Matthew,  brother  of 
preceding,  anecdote  of,  426- 
427  note. 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler,  192. 

"  Wilder,  Harvey,"  pseudonym 
of  J.  T.  T.,  subjects  treated 
under,  320. 

Wilderness,  battle-field  of  the, 
256,  278,  279. 

Wilkins,  "  Ned,"  Handiboe's 
second  in  "  affair  ''  with  Hal- 
pine,  186,  187. 


482 


INDEX 


Willey,  Alfred,  author's  grand 
father,  36,  37. 

Willey,  Capt.  John,  veteran  of 
Revolutionary  War,  6. 

Willey,  Olive  Cone,  author's 
grandmother,  10,  38,  39. 

Willey,  Rebecca,  see  Trow- 
bridge,  Rebecca  Willey. 

Williams,  Mr.,  Ann  St.  pub 
lisher,  100,  101. 

Willis,  Nathaniel,  founder  of 
The  Youth's  Companion,  326. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  P.,  326. 


Wilson,    Henry,    President   of 
Massachusetts  State  Senate, 

234- 

Woodman,  Horatio,  346. 
Wordsworth,  William,  353,  434. 

YANKEE  NATION,  THE,  Boston 

weekly,  149-156. 
Young  Surveyor,  The,  5th  Jack 

Hazard  story,  325. 
Youth's  Companion,  The,  326- 

330  ;  J.  T.  T.'s  contributions 

to,  330. 


Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  fy  Co. 
Cambridge,    Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


— I 


000549955    7 


